


Hopeful Voice

by fanatic_by_definition



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual Dean Winchester, First Kiss, Heaven's Civil War, Human Castiel, Hunter Sam, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Note: Author Sucks at Summaries, Slow Burn, Some elements of various Disney movies, Temporary Character Death, True Love, brief mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 85,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanatic_by_definition/pseuds/fanatic_by_definition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyone from everywhere seems to accept one universal truth: Love is the closest thing to Heaven that we have on Earth.</p><p>This is entirely false."</p><p>###</p><p>Castiel is the youngest Seraph in Heaven, and he's different from his siblings--not only does he have strange eyes and wings, but his heart functions abnormally compared to theirs. Above all, Castiel desires love and free will, and when he accidentally meets and saves the life of a beautiful human man named Dean on one of his secret excursions to Earth, he sees his chance to finally live out what he believes to be his purpose. Going against convention in every way, Castiel gets Raphael, the leader of the Rebel Army and the self-declared "New God", to turn him human and send him to Earth for one month with a specific mission: Find a love to rival his own, or return to Heaven to fight on Raphael's side of the War.</p><p>This is a story of an acquaintanceship, which becomes a friendship, which then becomes more. In a mess of blood, feathers, war, and spilled milk, two beings from different worlds come to realize that they were destined to meet from the start of Creation, and that maybe fairy tales do hold some truth to them after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story was supposed to be my DCBB for 2014, but I slacked and didn't finish it in time. Typical. It was originally inspired by "The Little Mermaid," but it deviated from that plot line somewhere along the way. I'm not quite finished with it yet--probably have about 15k words left--but I can't keep it to myself anymore, so I'm posting the prologue and Part I now. I will resolve to update once a week from now on, perhaps on Fridays. There will be 5 or 6 parts and an epilogue (adding up to 8 chapters), so look forward to those.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy this story--I've been working on it for almost a year now, and it's good to finally be putting it out there. Kudos, comments, and criticism are welcome.
> 
> Enjoy :)

It's scheduled to happen in mere minutes, and the whole Host can barely contain itself. It has been centuries since this last happened—since Father decided that He had created the perfect number of Celestials to serve Him and care for His creations on the Earth below—and only the elder fully remember what it's like to witness this particular event. The seven Heavenly Realms are absolutely bursting with music and praise and electric joy, eager for it to finally occur.

The past several centuries have left the Host considerably thinned out. While human souls and some select Archangels have been spared from the violence, civil wars and rumors of the Lightbringer's return have caused thousands upon thousands of angels to lose their wings—and, in the worst cases, their lives. Blood and Grace and forcibly-removed feathers have covered the golden streets and filled the air for as long as some of them can remember.

Such things shouldn't happen in a place like this. What was once a peaceful paradise for souls and Celestials has become a constant battleground, a Holy War zone, and it's sickening.

Now, there just aren't enough angels left.

This is what has caused Father to declare that a new angel—the first in almost 700 years—is to be brought forth to begin the replenishing of the Host. Cherubim, Seraphim, Powers, Archangels, souls, and every other creature that resides in Heaven is gathered at the base of Father's massive throne in the room without walls, awaiting his Breath of Life. Hands wave and clap, voices shout, wings unfurl and bristle excitedly, halos glow brighter than usual. Harps, lyres, flutes, trumpets, drums, and horns blast with joyous music and hymns in every conceivable language ring in the air, all saying the same thing:

_Let him come! Let him come! Father, let him come!_

Finally, a low hum fills the vastly large room, vibrating at a frequency that gives every being in the vicinity an odd chill. Silence falls almost instantaneously.

God appears.

Silence remains heavy in the air as He stands from his throne and takes a few steps forwards into the crowd surrounding Him, His great purple robe trailing gracefully behind Him with every stride. The mob parts for Him and He walks until He is surrounded on all sides by His creations, waiting in anxious expectation for something miraculous to happen. He stands at the center of the gathering and casts His gaze around, making eye contact with every single being in His own time, before looking down at His sandaled feet and inhaling deeply, closing his eyes. The crowd follows His example.

That's when the miracle happens.

Father looks up and bids His creations to do the same. They do, and He smiles at them kindly before letting out the breath He's been holding in. It wisps out of Him in a great golden cloud, glittering in the eternal light of His glory that illuminates the Realms, and He forms it with his hands, meticulous as always. Not a sound echoes throughout the room.

The golden mist takes on the vague shape of a human—a being created in Father's own image, just like the other angels—and Father smiles at it for a long while. He assesses its every aspect, from its height to the width of its shoulders, and after several long moments, He nods approvingly. At last, He reaches inside His robe and pulls out an ancient silver bell, holding it high above His head for all around Him to see.

The cheering starts. Music and singing and happy shouting fill the holy air once more, for everyone knows what is coming next (the human legend that an angel gets its wings every time a bell rings is not that far off from the truth, as it turns out). After nearly a millennium, God is about to create an angel again, and no one can keep their joy contained.

After allowing His children to rejoice for a good amount of time, Father holds up his other hand, signaling silence. He is given it immediately.

In a low voice, He starts chanting in the language only He knows the name of. The millions of creatures around Him join in quietly, for while they may not know exactly what they are saying, the words are engraved into their coding and speaking them comes naturally. God speaks to the translucent golden form before Him, gazing unwaveringly into its very core, and raises the bell once again. An elegantly crafted metal rod appears in His other hand, and He pauses His chanting for a brief moment. His creations follow suit.

In the moment before He strikes the great bell, God utters a single word that no one around Him has ever heard before.

_"Castiel."_

The rod comes down, and the bell rings out around the space, its indescribable sound cutting through each one who hears it. A bright, burning light shines out from the center of the golden form and engulfs it completely for several long seconds, glowing so brilliantly that all but the other angels have to turn away to avoid blindness.

Then, as suddenly as it appears, it’s gone.

Father steps back and appraises His newest Celestial creation, smiling once again. This Celestial takes on the appearance of a middle-aged human man, as most male angels do, but the six magnificent black wings sprouting from his back declare him a Seraph. He is dressed in a pure white robe, which washes out his pale skin but makes his dark hair and wings stand out dramatically. His eyes are closed and a serene expression rests upon his handsome face; above his head floats a new and glorious halo to match those of his siblings.

When they have had time to take him in, God looks around once more at His subjects and announces in a booming voice, resting one great hand on the new angel's head, "Castiel!"

It is the Seraph's name, and immediately the entire Host erupts in praise, shouting the word over and over in increasing volume until the very foundations of Heaven quake with it. Surely it can be heard somewhere on Earth, but they do not give much thought to that as they continue to cheer and applaud. The first angel in 700 years has just been born.

At his Father's gentle urging in the midst of the commotion, Castiel opens his eyes.

Instantly, the rejoicing stops.

Castiel looks around innocently, taking in his surroundings, and this causes gasps to erupt from more than one mouth. Murmurs and hushed questions pass between beings, frantic glances are thrown his way, and everywhere wings flare up defensively.

The new Seraph does not understand, and he looks up into his Father's loving face. God graciously brushes His hand over the angel’s forehead. “Welcome, _ol noromi_ ,” he murmurs.

"Thank you, Father," Castiel says reverently in a deep, rumbling voice—his first words. He tilts his head and furrows his brow, still confused. “But I do not understand. What is the matter? Why do my siblings speak in such hushed tones?"

"I have created you for a special purpose, Castiel," his Father responds gently. "You are not like your brethren. You are different, and you may not be accepted very quickly, but remember that I have a purpose for you that is greater than you could ever imagine."

Castiel blinks, trying and failing to grasp this concept in his young mind. "What is different about me?"

"Where there is uniformity, you stand out. Look around you. What do you see that is the same in your siblings?"

Castiel squints and tilts his head slightly, then scans his piercing gaze around the muttering crowd, studying the angelic faces that surround him. "There is no uniformity, Father. They are all different."

"Yes, as I designed them. But there is one trait that they all share."

The new angel looks around again, focusing. Each being he sees is different than the one beside it—some have thin lips and light-colored hair; others have dark skin and large noses; still others have scars from ancient battles. Their wings are shades of every color imaginable, and some are even mixes of more than one. Some angels wear white robes and some wear armor, which is all different, bearing their respective rank crests and mottoes. Their halos glow above their heads, brightening and dimming in time with the throbs of their own Graces. Castiel sees only one thing that they all share—each angel is looking at him as though he is some strange mutant creature, uncertainty and distrust swirling in their eyes.

As soon as this thought passes through his mind, Castiel finally notices. "Their eyes," he whispers, meeting his Father’s gaze. "Each of them has golden eyes that glow with the fire of their Grace." He feels embarrassed for not noticing it sooner.

"Precisely," Father replies kindly, sensing His child’s emotions and soothing him with another soft brush of His fingers through the messy raven hair atop Castiel’s head. "This is how I have created angels since the dawn of time. And that is where you are different, Castiel. Because of your special purpose, you required a different appearance. I have made your eyes a vibrant blue."

This only serves to deepen Castiel’s confusion. He blinks a few times and looks around himself again, trying his best to ignore the frightened expressions on the faces closest to him and the way several angels step back from him, refusing to meet his cerulean gaze. He stares down at his bare feet after a moment and asks quietly, “Why do they not like them? Is it a mark of Evil?”

“Of course not, _ar gassagen_ ,” God reassures him. He gently lifts Castiel’s chin and looks him directly in the eyes, His own brilliant silver ones shining affectionately. “It is only because they have never seen someone quite like you before. They will become accustomed to it. Have faith. It is for your greater purpose.”

“What is my purpose, Father?”

“In time you will know, little one. In time.”

Castiel just sighs and looks out over his new family. They turn away from him, continuing their upset muttering.

Every angel is created for a specific reason—this much Castiel knows for certain, even though he has only just been brought into existence. Each Celestial has a purpose to fulfill, and the new Seraph has just been told that he has one as well. He wants to believe that, feels the desperation for faith and hope deep within him. He clings to it.

But as his Father’s hand leaves his head and he watches the masses around him slowly dissipate, Castiel feels as though maybe the color of his eyes isn’t the only thing different about him.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Approximately three millennia after this, another important being enters into the universe—only this time, there are no bells or blinding lights. It is just the birth of an ordinary human infant who screams and cries as he announces his arrival into the world, squirming and kicking in the nurse’s arms as she wraps him in a light blue blanket. His mother, a pretty blonde woman with exhaustion and joy written all over her face, cradles him close to her chest when she receives him and adjusts the tiny blue hat on his head.

“He’s beautiful,” she rasps, touching his nose lightly with one finger. Her eyes fill with tears as she turns her head to look at her husband in the chair beside her bed, smiling widely. “Isn’t he beautiful, John?”

“He sure is,” the man agrees. He reaches over and tenderly rests his hand on his son’s small, warm head, brushing his thumb over the tiny closed eyes. He sniffs, emotion welling up in his chest. “Oh, Mary, you did so good.”

Mary just gives a weak laugh and looks back down at her child. “Wasn’t easy, lemme tell you.”

A nurse walks into the small room with a clipboard in her hands, grinning at the happy new family. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester,” she says kindly. “What’s the little one’s name?”

Mary and John lock eyes. They haven’t really thought about a name yet—until today, they hadn’t even known their child’s gender. Neither one says anything for several seconds.

“...Well,” Mary finally replies, “I thought we could name him after my mother.”

John laughs. “You wanna name our son ‘Deanna’?”

“No!” Mary exclaims, lightly slapping his arm with her free hand. “Dean.” She gazes down at the fussing bundle of perfection in her arms and sighs. “Dean John Winchester.”

When John doesn’t protest, the nurse asks, “So, is that it?”

“Yes,” John says after a moment, nodding. An unbelievably loving look seeps into his eyes as he watches his wife and his son. “Yeah, it’s perfect. Dean.”

 “Alright then. I’ll go handle this paperwork.” The nurse leaves, writing something on her clipboard as she goes.

“I’ve actually gotta use the bathroom real quick, sweetheart,” John says sheepishly and gets up from his chair. Mary turns to him and smiles her assent. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

 “Okay. We’ll miss you,” Mary replies.

“I’ll miss you more.” John leans over the bed and presses a sweet kiss to his wife’s lips, then drops one on the baby’s forehead. “Daddy’ll be right back, little man.”

Mary watches as he leaves the room, then turns her attention back to Dean. He is fast asleep now, dozing with his tiny head leaning against his mother’s sweat-damp chest, and Mary feels a surge of affection and fierce protectiveness wash over her almost violently. She takes a deep breath and lets it out before bending down to kiss her son’s head.

“Don’t worry about anything, my dearest,” she whispers against his warm skin. “You’ll always be safe, I swear. Angels are watching over you.”

When John returns to the room three minutes later, it is to the sound of his wife singing The Beatles to their infant son.

“ _Na, na na, na na na na_

_Na na na na_

_Hey Jude…”_

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Some say that love finds you. Others disagree, insisting that they themselves are the ones who seek it out and eventually discover it in a wonderful and unexpected place. Still others are undecided on this issue. However, everyone from everywhere seems to accept one universal truth: Love is the closest thing to Heaven that we have on Earth.

This is entirely false.

Love is not painless—it hurts like nothing else could ever hurt. Love does not bring peace and eternal happiness to those it touches—it brings stress, and longing, and ache, and frustration. Love is not perfect—it is entirely unsatisfying and lacking, and is therefore perhaps one of the most imperfect forces that we know of. Love does not soothe wounds—it creates them. Love does not caress your heart like a lover caresses your body—it scars it like a razor from your own hand. It is not easy, it is not smooth, it is not faultless. It is jealous, proud, and self-seeking. Love does not glow—it burns. It devastates. And it leaves no survivors.

Love is not, in fact, anything like Heaven—it is Hell.

And somehow, that doesn’t change our eternal desire for it—which is perhaps the greatest conundrum of all.

This is the story of an angel who has been kept from Hell for his entire existence, but craves it the instant he gets a taste of it. This is also the story of a man who spends his life avoiding Hell because of the pain it has caused him, but realizes that no one’s heart can ever be entirely flameproof.

Sometimes, just a glance is enough to singe.

**~•~•~•~•~**


	2. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All lyrics at the beginning of each part are from the song "Falling Slowly" by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova.

_I don’t know you_

_But I want you_

_All the more for that…_

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Ezekiel wipes his silver blade clean on the grass below him and leans against a pile of stones to catch his breath, his heavy armor clinking as he moves. His garrison, along with many others, has been fighting for countless days against Raphael’s forces with no real success—each side’s lines have remained more-or-less static, the only advances being in the numbers of wounded and dead. It’s a truly horrible situation, and Ezekiel tries to calm his scarred brown wings as they flutter and bristle with tension. Sweat drips from his hairline into his golden eyes, blurring his vision and reminding him that the conflict he is engaged in is not finished.

 _Father, help us,_ he prays urgently as he pulls his wings close to his body and slowly turns to peer over the stones sheltering him.

Beyond him about thirty yards, a large group of Rebels consisting of just as many angels as souls is engaged in brutal combat with around thirty Loyals—a motley mixture of Cherubim, Powers, Dominions, Seraphim, and even one or two Principalities. Wings are flaring; blades are flashing in the dim ethereal light; blood is flowing through cracks in breastplates and vambraces. Words are being shouted in several languages, the most dominant being Enochian. Ezekiel manages to catch a few words and phrases over the din: “ _Ohio ol niis ol oiad falz!” “Pon!” “Phama baltim!”_ He cannot tell which side is saying what; in all honesty, they all deserve insults for what has been happening in Heaven for the past several millennia.

Suddenly, a battered Rebel catches sight of Ezekiel spying, and lets out a shrill cry, disentangling himself from his adversary. Immediately, heads turn and wings stiffen.

“ _Zurza,”_ the Seraph mutters under his breath and immediately summons his blade back to his hand from where he had dropped it. “Alright!” he calls, standing at his full height and spreading his wings out to their entire great span. “You’ve found me. What do you intend to do about it?”

The Rebel smirks. “Let us show you,” he growls lowly, and immediately he and his small garrison charge for Ezekiel’s hiding place.

The Loyals in Ezekiel’s own garrison, keen to defend their leader, barrel into the fray, attempting to hold them off, but Ezekiel beats them to it. He releases his own bellow and runs for his attackers, using the strength of his six wings to propel him forwards more quickly. Dodging slashes and fists left and right, he ducks and spins, catching two Rebels with his blade and knocking a third to its back with a well-placed kick. He lets out a triumphant laugh, but is soon cut off by a jarring blow to his left center wing. Spinning around, he meets the eyes of his newest opponent—they gleam golden and fierce, same as the others. This angel is lean but short, and his four wings are smaller and more narrow than a Seraph's; _Cherub,_ Ezekiel thinks, and unconsciously loosens the grip on his blade a fraction.

The other Celestial notices this, and he straightens his posture. Stretching his wings out to his sides, he snarls in a gravelly tone, “Do not think for a second that my species makes me any less of a threat to you. The humans are wrong about us, you know.” He crouches and holds his sword out in front of him in a cliche-yet-effective defensive stance. “Cherubim are not kind or soft creatures. We are angels, and that makes us soldiers. I am as dangerous a weapon as you are.”

“I know,” Ezekiel states. “And I wish I did not have to do this.”

“Do not take pity on me, Ezekiel!” The smaller angel bristles with bottled tension and advances a step. “Fight me!”

Ezekiel only hesitates a moment before sighing, “Very well,” and lunging forwards. The Cherub angel counters with an arm block, and the blade merely dents his armor. He follows this up with a wide swing of his sword at Ezekiel’s side, which the Seraph deflects with his own blade. In a single swift movement, he halts the sword’s motion, diverts it away from himself, and forces it out of his opponent’s insubstantial grip with a sharp wrench.

Panic and surprise replace the Cherub’s previous cocksure attitude, and he freezes. Ezekiel holds up his blade to his attacker’s neck and stares him down, adding fear to the mixture of emotions in the other’s eyes. “You are a good soldier,” he says a little breathlessly. “Determined, noble. I would be honored to have you in my garrison. Join my cause, and I will let you live.”

Despite the sharp silver length digging into the exposed skin of his neck, the other angel manages a shaky laugh. “Join you? And turn my back on the only sure leader we have left in the seven Realms?” he mocks, mirth in his eyes. Seriousness settles in a heartbeat later, however. “I would rather burn.”

Almost sadly, Ezekiel concedes. “Then burn you shall.” With a twitch of his wrist, the silver blade slices harshly across the Cherub’s throat. His eyes widen and he lets out a panicked sound that devolves into a gurgle as blood and glowing Grace flood into his mouth from the deep, precise wound. He collapses, shaking hands frantically grabbing at his own neck, trying in vain to stop up the flow of life forces. Seconds later, a blinding, bluish-white light bursts from his eyes and mouth, and eventually absorbs his entire body. When it fades, all that remains is a bloodied, human-like corpse surrounded by the charred impression of four wings burned into the grass beneath it.

Ezekiel sighs heavily, somewhat thankful that this death was rather quick. “Forgive me, brother—and you, as well, Father.”

Turning, he spots one of his Lieutenants engaged in a brawl with one of the heads of the Rebel garrison, Malachi, and swiftly comes to her aid. He knows from experience of her agility and cunning in battle, but Malachi is a difficult opponent—his wrath can be considered infamous.

“Anna!” Ezekiel cries as he barrels into Malachi’s flank. He knocks him off-balance for a few heartbeats and follows it up with a swipe of his blade to keep him on the ground.

“Ezekiel.” The she-Seraph tosses her long auburn hair over her shoulder and shakes out her petite white wings as she brushes off the attack. She assists him in disarming Malachi, slamming her armored forearm into his windpipe and kicking his weapon out of reach as he drops it. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

Ezekiel laughs breathlessly. “My apologies, _Anael_ ,” he corrects with a grin as he kicks Malachi in the center of his breastplate. The elder Seraph falls back and lands with an _oof_ in the dirt, straining under the weight of the foot still firmly planted on his chest.

Panting heavily, Malachi struggles to prop himself up on his elbows and meets Ezekiel’s burning eyes with his own. They glint a dark amber, offering proof of his unnameable rage. Crimson blood sprays from his mouth and stains the skin of his lips as he speaks. “Well, well, well—if it isn’t the commander of this little Wayward Army. How precious.”

“I do not consider myself—or my soldiers—the wayward ones, brother." Ezekiel cannot keep the disdain out of his voice as he speaks.

"I do not consider myself your brother," Malachi counters venomously, "any more than I consider Lucifer my bedfellow."

"I grieve for that." The younger angel's eyes narrow, but an inkling of genuine sadness lurks there all the same.

"I am sure you do."

"Call off your minions, Malachi," Anael orders in interruption, "and we may let you leave in one piece." Her own blade slips down into her hand as she wills it. "Perhaps we will allow a few of them to go with you as well."

"What a generous offer." The Rebel looks past his captors to the fighting beyond them—the Loyals, whose force consists of high-ranking, powerful angels and skilled fighters, is clearly overpowering the more meager supply of soldiers that Malachi has provided; even from here, it is easy to determine who has the dominant garrison. His eyes meet Ezekiel's once more. "I accept. So long as you retreat as well." A sardonic smirk settles on his bloodied lips. "Father would weep at any more unnecessary bloodshed."

Rage boils within Ezekiel and his wings flare outwards as he presses the heel of his boot harder against Malachi's chest. Ignoring the ensuing grunt of protest, he growls through clenched teeth, "Do not speak His name! How dare you even _begin_ to infer His will!" He whips around to face his Lieutenant, clutching his blade in a white-knuckled grasp; the desire to kill the traitor below him is almost unbearable. "Anna, please—"

"Peace, brother," Anael soothes, holding up a placating hand. Her plea reaches her earnest eyes. "Release him. He has promised to pull back, if only for today. And he is right." A flash of grief passes briefly over her features. "I would rather avoid additional casualties for as long as possible."

After holding her calming gaze for a long moment, Ezekiel relents. "Very well." Hesitantly, he removes his foot from Malachi's sternum and steps back. Glowering, he says, "Just know that I am in no way content with this."

"I never expected you to be," Malachi assures him before lurching painfully to his feet. Turning towards the still-sparring mob, he shouts in a commanding voice, _"Niiso!_ We are finished here!"

Immediately, his troops halt their blows and back away from the Loyals. Their faces are still twisted with rage and bloodlust, but the voice of their commander cuts through their anger and reaches them somehow. Both groups slowly retreat from each other, remaining poised should anyone decide to break away and continue the brawl. Silver armor creaks and crimson-streaked wings thrash angrily, betraying the angels' emotions more accurately than anything else.

As his soldiers fall back and turn to leave, Ezekiel watches Malachi follow his own garrison off the battlefield. With a sneer, he shouts, "Send my regards to Raphael." The name is forced out of his mouth in disgust; he can hardly bring himself to speak it.

"I shall," Malachi promises somberly. Then a strange, knowing expression settles upon his face, and he smiles. "Give mine to your lost lamb. Where could he have wandered off to this time?"

Confused, Ezekiel glances over his shoulder at Anael. Her eyes widen in realization and she looks around frantically amongst the Loyal garrison, searching in vain for a familiar set of raven wings and blue eyes.

"Never can quite keep that one on a leash, can you?" Malachi laughs shortly. "Goodbye, _brother._ See you again soon." He pauses before ordering the others onward, trailing close behind the group. They walk a few more steps, then, with a gust of air and a whisper of wings, they disappear.

As soon as they’re gone, Ezekiel swears and walks over to Anael, who appears peeved and distressed. "He's not here, is he?" he asks lowly.

"No!" Anael's response is more a snarl than a word. "Oh, I thought he stopped this; I hoped—"

"Clearly, you hoped in vain," Ezekiel grouses. He turns to his garrison and picks out one angel in particular, one he knows the missing Seraph is close to. "Balthazar!"

A head turns instantly on the outside of the gathering, revealing a flat but handsome face and a head of short, light, spiky hair. "Yes, sir?" he asks in his sultry voice.

"Did you happen to see Castiel at any point in the past several hours?"

Blinking, the bracken-winged angel scratches at his goatee and looks around for his friend. "No, I haven't, I'm afraid," he mutters. "I don't sense him anywhere around, either."

"Neither do I." Ezekiel sighs and shakes his head in frustration. Raising his voice, he queries, "Has anyone here seen Castiel at all today?"

Feet shuffle and heads shake in the negative.

"Wonderful."

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

The weather of Earth is much different than that of Heaven. A harsh, frigid autumn wind blusters past and nearly knocks Castiel off his feet with its intensity. He shivers a little and tugs his long tan trenchcoat tighter around himself, completely unaccustomed to temperatures of this sort. His massive, dark wings, invisible and intangible to the humans brushing past him as he walks down the street, quiver and fold into each other as they draw themselves as close as possible to his body.

It’s unpleasant, yes, but the Seraph is here for a reason. A tingle of excitement sparks in his chest as he reminds himself of this, and he smiles despite the cold. His destination looms at the end of the street, the large neon letters spelling its name glowing invitingly, and his grin widens. To the humans, it may be unremarkable, but this place is endlessly fascinating for an angel. Hastening his pace, he hurries towards the automatic glass doors and the artificially-heated air he knows waits behind them.

When he passes through the doors, Castiel is blanketed with warmth and a symphony of familiar smells and he sighs, relaxing his tensed muscles. To his left, a row of blue plastic carts is queued up for the patrons to use, and he follows his usual routine and takes one. The front left wheel squeaks annoyingly as he pushes it along, but he chooses to ignore it, instead looking around in wonder at everything around him.

He comes here often, but his breath is still sucked out of him every time he visits. Colors and smells abound, clashing and somehow meshing together perfectly at the same time. Rows and rows of aisles containing everything from canned food to cleaning supplies to something called “toiletries” are stationed to his left, and to his right is the “Produce” section, in which there are several islands heaped high with fruits and vegetables of every shape and hue. There is also a “Refrigerated” section that runs along the far wall of the building, where foods and beverages that need to be kept cool are stored—Castiel thinks dryly that they could probably just keep those things outside in this weather. Sometimes, the humans that come here to replenish their supplies are not very kind and they yell at the ones in blue aprons who help put their items in bags. The sterile white lights are sometimes too bright, the mottled tile floor is littered with skid marks from the wheels of the carts, and a few of the signs hanging above each aisle are missing a letter or two—Castiel had learned from the apron people during one of his first visits that “DRY GODS” and “PET FOO” do not actually exist.

It’s an imperfect place, full of imperfect things, but it is one of the most beautiful and enrapturing places that Castiel has ever seen.

Looking around at the humans walking up and down the aisles, Castiel spots an interestingly dressed woman in a broad purple hat and a matching dress in the “PASTA / SAUCES / SPICES / OIL” aisle and decides to watch her first. Trying not to stare and give the wrong impression, he makes his way over with his cart and stops at the far end of the shelf she is looking at.

The Seraph watches out of the corner of his eye as the woman puts a few boxes and cans in her cart. She moves down a few feet, the heels of her violet shoes clicking on the tile below them, before stopping in front of a shelf full of different spices. A contemplative expression comes over her attractive face and she reaches out with both hands, picking two similar-looking plastic containers from the vast array. She glances from one to the other, considering.

After a few seconds, the woman shakes her head and turns to him. “Excuse me,” she says, her red lips forming a polite smile.

Castiel’s gaze slowly shifts over to her. He freezes.

“Which of these brands would you recommend?” The woman holds up the two small containers in front of her. “I know they’re really similar, but I need the best cilantro I can find within my budget. Which one do you think is better?”

The angel blinks a few times, then clears his throat. “I-I, er…” This has never happened before. He turns his head and hesitates before gesturing to the container with the red lid. “I-I’ve always preferred that one, myself. It’s quite delicious.”

The woman’s smile widens. “Great. Thank you so much!” She turns away and puts the other one back on the shelf, dropping Castiel’s choice into her cart before continuing on with her shopping. The angel takes a deep breath and watches her go, his blue eyes wide with fascination.

He knows that his infatuation with this place is unhealthy, and he knows that he is shirking his responsibilities in Heaven to come here, but something in him keeps calling him back time and time again. Ever since his short assignment on Earth about a year ago—something having to do with protecting a priest who was ministering to a dangerous area in Iran—the need to visit and observe the humans as they lived out their lives has been nearly impossible to shake. The way they laugh with carelessness and enthusiasm; the way they walk without aim or hurry; the way they _create_ with such genius and vision and _freedom_ that they have begun to reshape God’s world into something so beautiful and new that it is nearly unrecognizable—it’s all so amazing, and Castiel just has to see it all for himself.

His favorite thing to see, though, is humans choosing. Whether it be which route they take when they drive their automobiles somewhere, or which career they decide upon, or which person they want to love, they’re always making choices. The remarkable thing about this is not the fact that they made the choices, however—it’s that they _can_ choose in the first place.

There is a part of Castiel that longs to have that kind of power. In Heaven, everything has been decided for him since the day his Father created him, maybe even before that. Angels have always been God’s soldiers, Weapons of Righteousness, Holy Swords; they only act when ordered to and cannot disobey Father in the slightest. The last angel who decided something for himself ended up Falling...and he still burns today. Even so, Castiel has always been intrigued by the concept of free will and has only recently worked up the courage to explore it further. He has always, somewhere deep below his Grace and his loyalty to Father, wanted to have it in full.

Here, at this “grocery store” on Earth, he does—he can choose which cart he uses; he can choose which humans to observe; he can even choose which brand of spice someone buys (though that is a rather rare occurrence). Not only that, but he can observe choices being made all around him constantly—red apple or green; “Romaine” lettuce or “Iceberg”; “Cheerios” or “Frosted Flakes”. This is why he loves this place so very much: the power of free will is exhibited here in such purity that it leaves him feeling awestruck and envious every time he leaves.

It’s a tease. But he’s found that it’s a tease he likes.

Castiel pauses at the spice shelf, grabs a small container of cilantro, and stuffs it in the pocket of his coat before leaving this aisle and looking for someone else to watch.

Simply because he can, Castiel fills his cart up with a random assortment of items as he goes throughout the store and witnesses choices being made by several different people. He is careful to place the carton of eggs _on top_ of the 24-pack of bottled water this time, wishing to avoid the yolky mishap that had occurred last week—never before has he seen such flustered apron-wearing humans as the ones that had helped clean up the mess he’d made. He stands nearby as a man decides to purchase skim milk instead of two-percent. He sees a mother pressured into getting a small chocolate bar for her stubborn child. An old man picks between two brands of denture cream; a woman decides to splurge and get regular soda instead of diet; a teenager finds the cheapest snack food available and scoops about six boxes into his arms.

The magic doesn’t end when they’re finished in the aisles, though. When the patrons go to the cashier to pay, they can either do so with paper money and coins or a plastic card, and then they can choose between paper bags or plastic ones. Neither choice has major consequences. Then, there are two sets of exit doors and they are free to use whichever one they please. The “parking lot” outside those doors is also interesting—painted on the tarmac are a series of yellow lines, demarcating spaces in which the humans can leave their automobiles—also called “cars”, apparently—while they shop. The only restrictions are on special “handicap” spaces, where only the disabled are permitted to park. Castiel reminds himself to bless the vehicles in those spaces with a spell to ease their drivers’ pain. Apart from watching humans, he does enjoy helping them as well. Even if it’s not exactly in his job description.

Just as he thinks this, a woman on crutches hobbles past him; he gently whispers his fingertips over her shoulder as she goes on without a pause. He acts nonchalant and continues in the opposite direction as he hears the commotion behind him a number of seconds later: “What the—Hey! It doesn’t hurt anymore! I can walk on it! Here, take these stupid things, I don’t need ‘em...”

A small smile graces Castiel’s face at the sound of her joy, and, having gotten his fill of human interaction for the day, steals behind a shelf to fly out of the store unseen. The cart he had been pushing around the store is left in the aisle, full of groceries that someone more needy than him will need.

He lands in a forest about two miles away from the store. Bright oranges and reds form a vibrant canopy overhead where there used to be a rich green, and Castiel does not know which he likes better. They’re both so amazing and so different from the sterile, blank greys and whites that dominate the landscape and structures of Heaven—even the clothes they wear are a pure, unblemished white. They do have trees and grass and nature there, but many of it has been dead and brown for several centuries. War devastates wherever it goes, but in Heaven, the effect is exponential. Father designed His Heavenly creation to flourish as its inhabitants did—when so many Celestials perish, it is only natural that other parts of Heaven do, as well. Whole prairies are decimated by the ghostly, wraith-like hands of Death every day; Castiel knows this from dreadful experience.

Perhaps that is another part of the reason he comes to Earth so often now—to escape the bloodshed that he has always hated.

Now is not the time to think such depressing thoughts, however. Shaking them from his mind, Castiel casts his gaze around the familiar forest and sets off down his usual path, the one he has worn into the dirt from visits upon visits. The autumn sunlight shines through the leaves above his head and dapples the ground with a kaleidoscope of mesmerizing shapes and colors. He watches them all as they dance at his feet, and he feels compelled to send a pointless prayer of thanks to his Father for coming up with such a wonderful design. Too many humans—too many angels, as well—often miss little details like this. He wonders why he doesn’t himself as he walks down his well-trodden path.

Perhaps it is because he was created differently. Castiel has known from the beginning that his oddly-colored eyes were not the only unique characteristic that his Father had given him. While they might not warrant a second glance here on Earth, he has been getting curious and frightened looks in Heaven because of them for the entirety of his three-thousand-year existence. His jet-black wings are also a bit strange—while other angels’ wings of that color are simply black, Castiel’s seem to glint with every color of the visible and invisible spectra as light caresses them. Envy has been directed at him ever since this trait was discovered.

Apart from these things, however, he believes he has also been given a different sort of heart. Typical angels have the capacity in their hearts for three things: love for Father, love for Father’s Creation, and love for Father’s Word. These things are already installed in the hearts of angels when they are created, and they are permanent fixtures that cannot change or grow as the hearts in which they reside only have so much room.

And that is where Castiel’s heart is different: it seems to have the unique ability to expand.

On top of of simply keeping all the love he was originally given, he seems to constantly be gaining more. While the other angels kill without much remorse—though they love those they are killing to some degree, since Father created them—Castiel is haunted for weeks after each life he takes. While other angels have a “lukewarm” love for humans and for Earth, choosing to mostly focus on its negative aspects, Castiel’s love for this amazing place grows every time he visits. While every angel can say that they love Father, sometimes Castiel feels like he is the only one who truly and completely means it. He feels as though he is alone in this strange experience of whole and passionate love and loyalty, despite the name given to the soldiers he sides with in the war. No one he speaks to fully understands it when he tries to explain it—and he has certainly tried, many times—and sometimes he feels like he is just going to burst with affection and passion and pure, holy _love_ for almost everything and everyone he comes in contact with.

There was a time when Castiel thought every angel felt this way. But he has learned in his thousands of years that he was dreadfully wrong about that, and this war has just gone to prove it more and more.

The only one who could truly understand is God Himself, but he’s been gone for millennia now. Castiel feels a pang of bitterness at the thought of Raphael, the Archangel who has decided that he is the ultimate authority in Heaven and on Earth now that Father is gone. This is the reason for the whole war in the first place—the Rebels, Raphael’s followers, believe that he is right, and the Loyals still think that God is out there somewhere, waiting to return and fix everything, and that His Will is still the ultimate law of the universe. While Castiel does love his older brother more than he can express and would die for him without a second thought, he still feels sometimes that he could probably stab him through the heart and continue his own life in contentment.

If that isn’t real love, Castiel can’t think of a better definition for it.

The Seraph continues down his narrow dirt path beneath the colorful trees until he reaches his destination: a large stump, the remnants of a great oak that used to stand here as proudly as any of the remaining trees around it. It is surrounded by fallen leaves and a thin, leafy green vine has wound itself around the decaying object as if trying to hold it together. Castiel smiles at it and idly strokes one hand down its rough surface. This dead thing contains everything that makes him happy, apart from his huge family, and Castiel likes to think that perhaps this keeps it alive.

Reaching out, he brushes off the pile of leaves he left on top of the stump after his last visit and removes the sticks and chunks of bark he braced over the opening, revealing a large hollow compartment. Inside is a motley collection of small items that he has acquired during his many visits to Earth and the grocery store: among them is a ball of rubber bands that he found in an alley; a Christmas tree ornament shaped like an angel he’d discovered outside a gift store; a small toy car that a child left in the grocery store; a magazine full of pictures of clothes that had intrigued him when he’d seen it at a newsstand; an old palette of watercolor paints he’d found in a dumpster; a disposable camera and a photograph he’d taken of a stray cat; a cheap mousetrap that he never intends to use but likes to fiddle with occasionally. Each object brings back a fond memory that he has of Earth, and Castiel smiles as he looks down at all of them.

He puts his hand in his pocket and takes out the small container of cilantro he’d gotten at the store. Gazing at it for a moment, he leans down and adds it to the amalgamation, setting it carefully between a pile of scavenged movie ticket stubs and the toy car. It’s mildly surprising how pleased this strange array of items makes him.

 _Ezekiel would not be pleased._ The smile fades as this thought passes through Castiel’s mind. It’s a common thought, if he’s honest with himself, about as common as _Father would not be pleased, either._ Unfortunately, only one of those thoughts is relevant anymore.

No. No, he mustn’t think like that. God is still out there, watching diligently over them all. He’d _promised_ to, after all, and God never breaks promises.

Sighing heavily, Castiel looks up at the greying autumn sky and tries to see his Father’s face through the colorful leaves.

“I wish You were here—well, somewhere I could talk to You directly, at least,” he murmurs. “I have so many questions, and so many strange feelings that I just can’t block out. Why does this only happen to me? Why am I the only one who seems to be going through this? Why do I feel so…”

The word _human_ lingers on the end of that sentence, but he leaves it unspoken.

“Please.” Castiel closes his eyes and lets the crisp air wisp through his hair and over his face. He pretends it’s Father’s breath. “I miss You. And I need You. We all do, so much. Please return soon, or I fear we will destroy ourselves before this century ends.” He feels a strange lump manifest in his throat, and he has to speak in a lower voice to get past it. “Do not let me die without discovering my purpose. I want to know why You made me this way. Don’t let me die without finding out. Please.”

Somewhere nearby, a crow caws mournfully. It's a perfect echo of Castiel’s raging emotions.

As the wind rustles through the leaves in response to the angel’s prayer, he thinks he hears a single breathy word whispered in his ear:

_soon_

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

The Loyal garrison has returned to their barracks to tend to their wounds. Ezekiel and Anael are huddled together, talking quietly, out of earshot to the rest of the garrison. Frustration and anger lurk thick in the air between them.

“There is no excuse for this,” Ezekiel mutters as he polishes his blade with angry jerks of his arm. “This has gone on for long enough. I was merciful before, but that time has passed.”

“He needs to be punished.” Anael’s voice is slightly calmer than her sibling’s. “But first we need to get him back here.”

“He usually comes back on his own.”

“Yes, well, this time is different. He needs to be summoned.”

“I agree.”

Despite his anger, Ezekiel feels a little hesitant to punish Castiel. The young Seraph had used to be one of the most diligent members of the garrison, but about a year ago, that had changed. It had started out as a few hours AWOL at a time, twice, maybe three times a month. But those hours soon became days, sometimes several in a row. When asked where he’d been, Castiel would try his utmost to change the subject, and he would never give a straight answer to anyone’s questions. Luckily, he returns each time uninjured and without any sort of dark taint clinging to him.

In the past, Ezekiel has berated Castiel for doing this, but has never really done anything drastic to prevent it happening—the blue-eyed Seraph is as stubborn as he is talented with an angel blade, and he always finds the perfect times to disappear unnoticed. Now, however, given the current status of the war, Ezekiel is not sure if he should remain so lenient.

What they need is someone who can find him and get him back home; unfortunately, the only creatures who have the ability to trace an angel’s whereabouts without an arduous ritual are Archangels. And the only one who’s sided with the Loyals isn’t typically—

"I might be able to help."

As if on cue, a smooth voice speaks and the air is charged with a new flood of power. Behind Ezekiel and Anael, another angel has appeared, his two broad golden wings held out leisurely at his sides; his short stature makes the appendages look even more impressive. He is not dressed in armor, but rather typical Archangel attire: shining white shoes and a white tuxedo with a bright purple tie tucked neatly against his chest—he stands out dramatically in the barracks, surrounded by exhausted, filthy angels clad in dirty armor. The small smile on his face is one that speaks of self-confidence and a hint of mirth, summing up its bearer’s personality perfectly.

"Gabriel," the second Lieutenant, Rachael, murmurs in awe from where she stands a few yards beyond them, and a muted gasp ripples throughout the barracks.

"Yup, it's me, your ‘secret weapon’," drawls the newcomer, heedless of the mild fear his sudden arrival has evoked. He swaggers forwards with his hands in his trouser pockets and greets Ezekiel with a cocky smirk—despite his status, he is rarely as regal as he should be. "Haven't been out or about in a few weeks, figured I'd drop by to check on my favorite Dark Horse. And it looks like I showed up just in time, didn't I?"

"It seems you have," Ezekiel replies coolly after gathering his thoughts. He grins despite himself. "Though we could have used you an hour ago."

"What? You handled that dickbag and his peons just fine by yourselves; I was watching!" Gabriel’s smile widens, revealing his dimples as he slaps his younger friend on the shoulder. "Way to go; serves ‘em right. I’m just surprised you can do all that, but you can't keep an eye on your little brother for _one battle_.”

There’s a pause. The two lock eyes for a long moment before Ezekiel turns to the rest of the garrison behind them. “Leave us,” he orders with a wave of his hand. “We will join you shortly.”

The angels are gone in a whisper of wings before the last word leaves their commander’s mouth.

“Cool trick,” Gabriel says with a low whistle. “You’ll have to teach me that sometime.” He goes to the doorway and walks out of the stuffy concrete building into the mildly fresh air outside. The two Seraphs follow him.

“Enough jokes.” Ezekiel wills his armor to disappear, leaving him in his typical clothing: heavy boots, comfortable-yet-formal pants, and a worn smoking jacket over a T-shirt. Every scrap of fabric on him is white. “We need you to find Castiel and summon him back here.”

“Yeah, I got that part, but I just wanna know one thing.” Gabriel snaps his fingers and a small red candy appears in his hand. He pops it in his mouth before continuing. “Why does he leave in the first place? He certainly shouldn't.”

Ezekiel shakes his head, at a loss. “We do not know, to be honest.”

“Does he still get shunned because of the, y’know…” The Archangel gestures vaguely to his own gold eyes.

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Well, just ‘cause you don’t see something happening doesn’t mean it’s not happening. How long’s he been gone?”

"All day, evidently," Anael interjects. She has also removed her armor and is now wearing a modest, knee-length white dress and a pair of white flat-bottomed shoes. Her wings blend with these clothes perfectly, but her bright copper hair is boldly set off. "He does this often—slips off with an excuse when our backs are turned. We’re never entirely certain where he goes.”

“Well, some guardians you've turned out to be, I see. And by ‘often’, you mean…”

“Twice a month, sometimes more, for varying lengths of time.”

Gabriel's expressions tightens. Despite his carefree demeanor, he is a stickler for things like this. Angels are not supposed to leave their garrison’s territory without direct orders to do so. “And this has been going on for how long, exactly?”

Anael and Ezekiel exchange hesitant glances. This is the first time they’ve explicitly told anyone outside their garrison about Castiel’s worrying habit—in some ways, it feels oddly like a betrayal of trust. At the same time, they feel a little foolish for not confronting it earlier.

Ezekiel is the one to respond after several moments: “About one year.”

“Wh—” Gabriel coughs and nearly chokes on the candy still in his mouth. “ _A year?_ As in, three-hundred and sixty-five days? And this is the first time you've considered stopping it?” He shakes his head in utter disbelief as he looks between his two siblings. “What would Father say?”

“Do not,” Ezekiel interrupts, “bring Him into this.”

“Still! Have you even tried to keep him from leaving like this? Going off to some unknown place several times a month, shirking his responsibilities, _lying_? I mean, I know I'm not the perfect specimen of obedience or wholesome purity myself, but this is just—he could get himself in serious trouble."

“We have warned him that whatever he is doing is unwise and potentially dangerous,” Anael tells him a little sheepishly. “But he always insists that it isn’t and finds some way to divert the conversation. He is also very good at leaving when we are not looking.”

“Well, that changes _everything._ ” There’s a loud crunching sound and Gabriel angrily spits several tiny red shards into the dry grass. “It’s not like you’re a Celestial being that doesn’t need eyes to sense when your brethren are near you and when they’re, oh, I don’t know— _missing completely!_ ”

Ezekiel takes a step forwards, meeting Gabriel’s eyes. “Calm yourself. We realize our mistake now, and we intend to remedy it immediately. But first we need you to find him.”

The two of them stare each other down defiantly. Finally, Gabriel takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, trying to calm his bristling golden plumage. “Fine,” he intones quietly. “I’ll locate him and call him back. But this is the only time I’ll do that, because as soon as he gets here, you two are gonna have a serious talk with him and tell him to _keep his holy ass on this cloud_ from here on in. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” comes the unanimous reply.

“You better mean that, because I have the power to smite you and the temptation is becoming rather strong.” With this, the Archangel sends one last glare to each of the Seraphs before closing his eyes and bowing his head. He starts to mutter something unintelligible in a low voice, interspersing Castiel’s name throughout. Anael and Ezekiel watch anxiously as he slowly raises his head again and holds his hands out in front of himself, seemingly deep in concentration. Suddenly, he gasps and his closed eyes flash with a bright blue light. They open abruptly as it fades, and the Archangel stands there, panting, frozen in the position he’s in.

Anael looks at him intently. “Did you see him, Gabriel?” she asks.

“Yeah, I saw him.” Gabriel blinks a few times, still mildly stunned.

“Where is he?” Ezekiel’s voice holds more anger than fear—it is clear that he is already coming up with the long-deserved lecture to give his errant soldier.

The Archangel meets his gaze after a few more seconds of blank staring. “You’re really not gonna like it.”

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

The sticks and dead leaves are back in place over the opening in the stump. Castiel wipes the dirt from his hands and gives his storage place one last look-over before turning and heading back down the path to the treeline. From the color of the sky, he can tell the sun is about to set, and he wants to get to a good vantage point to watch it—this is probably his favorite thing about Earth, besides the humans. The way the sky just explodes with oranges and reds and yellows and sometimes even purples…he wishes the light in Heaven wasn’t so constant so that the Celestials could have a spectacle like this to witness every night.

He remembers the first time he’d seen it, about one thousand years ago. He’d known what it was, of course, as he was familiar with the solar system and the way the Earth moved as it orbited the star Father had placed the perfect distance from it. But seeing it in person as it dipped below the horizon and painted the sky with such a beautiful arrangement of hues was truly indescribable; now that he thinks about it, perhaps that is where his obsession with Earth began.

It’s amazing how something as simple as a planet turning in its celestial orbit to plunge itself into a regularly-scheduled darkness has the power to change an immortal being’s perception of existence forever. In Castiel’s eyes, Earth usually seems more heavenly than Heaven itself.

When he reaches the edge of the forest, Castiel starts to head to his usual spot in the field surrounding it. It’s a large boulder in the middle of a patch of flattened grass near the center of the field, and when he sits on it at the right time, the sky opens up above him and he has what must be the best view of the sunset anywhere on Earth. He smiles just thinking about it, and looks around for that boulder—

—only to find that someone else is already there.

Immediately, Castiel stops in his tracks and stares wide-eyed at the image before him. A young human male, approximately thirty-five years old, has parked his large, antique-looking black automobile in the middle of the field right beside the boulder. He is dressed in ripped jeans, work boots, and a worn green jacket, and he is perched on the front of his car with one leg dangling down, his foot brushing the long grass below it. A glass bottle containing an amber-colored liquid is gripped tightly in his left hand, and as Castiel watches, the man raises it and tips his head back to take a long drink. Castiel has seen those bottles at the grocery store—they contain a type of alcohol called “Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey”, if he recalls correctly.

This is certainly strange. Why would a young human male—a creature well-known for its sociability and desire for frequent physical contact with females—purchase a bottle of alcohol and drive his car into the middle of a field to watch the sunset alone?

Oddly, the angel feels the need to get closer to this human. Curiosity burning in his chest, Castiel walks as slowly as he can, trying to remain quiet so as not to scare the man off. He inches forwards, pulling his trenchcoat around himself against the cool autumn breeze. That’s another strange thing about this man—he doesn’t seem at all affected by the rapidly-falling evening temperature, yet his jacket certainly isn’t substantial enough to keep him warm.

A stick snaps under Castiel’s foot when he takes his next step, and he gasps, his gaze locking on the figure of the man about twenty yards from him. Castiel sees his shoulders tense, and he hastily mutters “ _Vran ipamus_ ” under his breath. The atoms in his being shift and alter themselves until he is as vaporous as his wings, though he can still see himself just fine.

He breathes a sigh of relief only to suck it back in as the man turns his head to look for the unseen source of the sound.

During his frequent visits to Earth, Castiel has seen many humans. He has learned that they come in many forms, just like the angels they are modeled after, and each one is beautiful. Whether they have dark hair or light, tanned skin or pale, wide eyes or narrow, large bodies or small, they are all fearfully and wonderfully made, just as Father intended them to be. Castiel has contented himself for hours just sitting invisible on a bench in a park somewhere, watching the different humans walk past and marveling at their individual splendor.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t think that activity will ever be quite as satisfying after this day.

Because the man sitting on the black car beside Castiel’s sunset boulder—the man drinking alcohol alone in the middle of a field on the edge of his town—the man who has just now turned his face in Castiel’s direction—is the most beautifully exquisite thing that the angel has seen in his three thousand years.

Even from this distance, Castiel can make out the light dusting of freckles that cover the man’s high cheekbones and the bridge of his perfect nose—they’re even sprinkled across his chest, revealed by the neckline of his V-neck shirt. His lips are perfectly bowed, despite the confused frown they are currently formed in—Castiel wonders what they would look like smiling. There is not a single scar or blemish anywhere on his lightly-tanned skin, and his short, dirty-blonde hair is styled with some sort of gel but still appears softer than anything. His hands, which Castiel can also see more clearly now, are strong and slightly calloused, and the angel finds himself wishing he could see the fabric-covered arms they are attached to. His shoulders are broad but proportionate to the rest of his adequately muscular body; Castiel estimates from the length of his legs and well-sculpted torso that he is approximately seventy-four inches tall.

And his round, piercing eyes are the color of fresh cilantro.

In summation, he is utterly breathtaking.

 _Father…_ Castiel begins a prayer, but finds that he has no idea how to finish it. He has been rendered completely speechless at the sight of this man, and he wonders what to do. He feels as though his heart is going to beat out of his chest, it’s pounding so hard, and he is suddenly not as cold as he was a few seconds ago. The force of gravity seems to have doubled as he is no longer able to move his feet. Panic starts to squeeze at his throat, and he is suddenly aware that he hasn’t breathed in what feels like an eternity.

_What is happening to me?_

The human sweeps his eyes around the field one last time before shrugging and turning back to the reddening sky.

Time starts up again, and Castiel takes a deep, shuddering breath. Never has he experienced something like that from simply _seeing_ another being before, human or otherwise—he hadn’t even felt so enraptured when he’d looked into the face of God Himself the day he’d been created. Something in his chest has combusted somewhere behind his heart, and it's rocked him to his very core. He doesn’t understand it at all.

And yet...he almost wants it to happen again.

A muscle in his leg twitches, and Castiel realizes he can move again. He goes especially slowly this time, approaching the human with caution even though he knows he is no longer visible. With every step, the angel feels as though lightning is about to strike the ground between them; the electricity in the air is tangible and crackling. He just prays that he will survive the next ten feet.

Finally, he is standing directly beside the old black automobile and its driver. The human is even more stunning up close: from here, Castiel can see each of his freckles individually and he notices that even the pores in his skin and the lines around his emerald eyes are perfection incarnate. Those lines are deepened by the somewhat troubled expression on his face, however—he looks weary. There is a wistfulness in his eyes as he peers up at the slowly setting ball of orange light in the sky, and as he sighs, Castiel detects a note of pain in his deep voice. This is concerning.

He reaches out, wanting to touch, but stops his hand mere inches from the freckled skin.

At that moment, a sharp gust of cold air sweeps across the field and hits them both. The small shiver that courses through the hunched body of the man on the car doesn’t escape Castiel’s notice, and neither does the surprised “Shit” that leaves his lips. Unfazed by the language—he has heard such words before from the mouth of a certain rebellious Archangel—Castiel smiles at this incredible creature and gets an idea.

Slowly, he eases the tensed sinews of his six wings and lets them unfurl to their full span, about twenty feet in all. Shaking the appendages a little, Castiel takes a few steps closer to the human and pauses for a moment before sidling up right next to him. From this distance, the angel can feel the scant warmth radiating from the man and he catches his scent on the next faint breeze. He smells like cinnamon and earth and whiskey, and it’s just as perfect as the rest of him.

Not without hesitating, Castiel extends the large top wing on his right side over the front of the car and gently curls it around the shivering man. He doesn’t want the human to feel the brush of feathers against his neck, but he wills the wing to become slightly more tangible so that its warmth can transfer from one body to another. A pleased feeling fills his chest when, after a few seconds, the man sighs and stops shivering. He blinks a few times, appearing confused, then shrugs again and takes another swig of his drink.

Castiel is so busy studying his new favorite human’s face and trying to count his freckles that he doesn’t even notice when the sunset really starts. The only indication is the way the man’s body loses some of its strain and tiredness and the way he smiles—it’s a small one, yes, but it’s preferable over the troubled frown he’d been wearing minutes ago. He sets his bottle aside and leans back a little, inadvertently pressing himself further into the warm wing of the invisible angel beside him. Castiel’s face feels hot. He doesn’t move.

The man seems to glow and he looks years younger as he watches the sky above him change and blaze with new colors. Castiel would turn, but he is just now realizing that the sunset has never looked as beautiful as it does reflected in this remarkable human’s eyes.

All at once, the Seraph finds himself wishing he could stay here, in this moment, with this person beside him, forever.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

“ _Earth?_ ” Anael asks incredulously. “He’s on Earth?”

“Where?” Ezekiel demands. His rage is growing substantially with each new piece of information that Gabriel gives them.

“Somewhere in North America,” the Archangel responds, his eyes closed in concentration. “Kansas, I think...Lawrence, Kansas.”

“Well, I will not wait forever. Call him back!”

“It’s not that easy. Gimme a minute, will ya?”

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Dusk falls silently. The top edge of the sun dips below the farthest line of trees in the distance, and Castiel watches it all happen as a reflection. He doesn’t regret it.

As the sky turns from crimson to indigo, the human exhales deeply and nods, turning away and grabbing the bottle of alcohol again. “And that’s why you stay alive, Dean,” he says quietly to himself. “For Sammy, for sex, and for sunsets.” He takes a long pull.

 _Dean_. The name suits this man, Castiel thinks. Simple, yet strong. And his gravelly voice is like a heavenly chorus to the angel’s ears.

But why would he need to remind himself of his reasons for living? Concern eats at Castiel for a moment before Dean sighs and shifts, getting up off the cold metal and leaving the angel even colder as his back leaves the imperceptible wing behind him. The human shivers at the sudden chill, takes one last swig of his drink, and tosses the bottle into the grass without a second glance.

Castiel makes it disappear the moment Dean isn’t looking—he despises littering, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to feel anything more than mild annoyance towards this man. Surprisingly, he finds himself smiling fondly as he watches Dean open the door of the automobile.

There’s a squeak of old hinges that need oiling as Dean climbs into his car, and the door closes behind him with a strangely satisfying _ka-chunk_. The engine revs noisily to life and two bright lights—Castiel thinks he’s heard them called “headlights”—switch on in front of the car, illuminating its path through the darkening field. It’s quite an enthralling sight.

But Dean—Dean looks fictional. Castiel’s supernatural vision allows him to see the man’s face even through the shadows within the car, and it’s just gorgeous. Something about him sparks into life as the vehicle does, and he smiles a toothy grin at the sound of its motor, grasping the thin wheel in front of him in a familiar grip. There’s a glimmer in his emerald eyes that hadn’t been there even when the sun had set in them; it’s entrancing, and Castiel memorizes it as accurately as possible. Then, just because he can, he memorizes the rest of this image of Dean as well, storing it away in the part of his mind only he himself is allowed access to.

Then Dean’s lips part, and Castiel listens intently as that sonorous voice speaks once again. “Alright, Baby,” it says, and for a panicked moment the Seraph thinks he is the one being addressed. “Let’s get outta here before shit starts gettin’ creepy.” One hand reaches down, the engine note changes slightly, and the car is pulling away from the boulder.

Castiel watches it drive off for five seconds before deciding that he would very much like to see what it’s like inside an automobile.

It’s late, and danger could potentially be waiting for him, but Castiel doesn’t feel like he can leave Dean just yet. Remaining cloaked, the angel flaps his wings once and is seated unseen beside Dean in the antique car. The smell of old leather, alcohol, gunpowder, and something remarkably _Dean-_ esque permeates the interior of this machine, and Castiel loves it instantly. He runs his fingertips over the worn leather of the seat beneath him, marveling at how soft it is, before once again fixing his blue gaze on the vehicle’s driver. He watches the way Dean’s strong jaw clenches and relaxes rhythmically beneath the freckled skin of his cheek, sees how he squints as he tries to point the car in a relatively straight line so they can reach the road about twenty yards ahead. He’s struggling a little, but persevering.

It is then that Castiel remembers the effects that alcohol has on the human body, and he deduces that Dean is “drunk”. The angel knows enough about Earthly life to realize absently that Dean probably shouldn’t be operating a vehicle in this condition.

Thankfully, they reach the edge of the field safely. Beside the road now, Dean stops the car and watches, waiting for an opportunity to turn. Yellow and red lights fly past, the beacons of other humans out for an autumn night’s drive, and Dean’s gaze follows them, searching for a gap large enough to steer his own car into. His eyes are constantly blinking and he keeps shaking his head quickly back and forth; Castiel guesses that he is having some difficulty focusing his vision, probably due to the alcohol.

Like a breath of wind, Castiel brushes his fingertips over the rough fabric of Dean’s jacket sleeve and whispers a single word. In an instant, the man’s eyes sharpen and the intoxicated flush to his freckled cheeks slowly fades. Confusion passes over his lovely features for the third time tonight, and he blinks again, looking down at himself. “The fu—what the hell is going _on_ with me tonight?” he mutters, then shakes it off after a few heartbeats.

At the disbelief and slight panic in Dean’s deep voice, Castiel feels a sudden pang of guilt for sneaking around him like this. Conventionally, humans don’t go from warm to cold in mere seconds, or get sober with a single touch—perhaps this interference is unwise.

But for some reason, Castiel simply cannot help himself. The urge to help, to touch, to just _be with_ this human is unfamiliar to him in its intensity, and it is frightening. Never before has he been so desperate for contact with another being—never before has the very sight of someone made his pulse accelerate and his face flare with heat. The thought of those piercing eyes turned on him and _actually_ seeing him, of those lips smiling not just in his direction but really _at_ him, is almost too glorious to even imagine. Castiel has only known of Dean’s existence for about an hour, and already he feels as though nothing will ever be the same after this night. This chance meeting—one-sided as it may be—has altered Castiel’s life inexplicably, and he doesn’t understand it at all.

At last, there’s a gap in traffic, and the car lurches forwards and onto the pavement. Dean grins crookedly, presses his right foot down, and the engine gets louder as they accelerate. Castiel can’t help the excitement flaring in his chest at the speed, and he has to hold in his laughter behind a wide, invisible smile.

They drive for a few hundred feet, then Dean turns the car down a darkened road between the trees of a different forest than the one Castiel is familiar with. There are no lights on this street apart from the car’s headlights and the nearly-full moon above them. The angel turns to look out the window to his right and marvels at the beauty of the stars as they flash between the trees. He’s watched the stars before, but they seem like... _more_ from the passenger seat of this old car.

His blue gaze shifts back to Dean, and he corrects himself— _everything_ is more beautiful from the passenger seat of this old car. The headlights are now reflected in the human’s eyes and casting shadows over his face; his cheekbones stand out provocatively in this odd lighting.

Castiel stares at him for several rapid heartbeats, and briefly wishes that Dean would stare back.

Dean glances down for a moment and removes one hand from the steering wheel. He reaches over to a small glowing panel and turns a dial, and all at once the car is full of music. It isn’t a hymn, and Castiel can’t make out any harps or lyres or trumpets, but he likes it anyway. A husky voice starts singing about shelter and storms and fading away before a higher, shriller one joins in. Some of the words are jumbled and hard to understand, but Dean seems to know them all. He belts them out at the top of his lungs, his radiant smile doing more to light their way than anything else.

“ _War, children_

_It’s just a shot away_

_It’s just a shot away…_ ”

 _Or a stab away,_ Castiel thinks. _Or a word._ _Or a thought._ He knows this all too well. The carefree mood disappears from him as he remembers the world he is currently avoiding. For a few minutes, he hadn’t even thought about it.

He’d felt peace. The only reason he hadn't realized it is because he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

And that’s the most remarkable thing about Dean that Castiel has discovered yet—he gives Castiel peace without even consciously trying.

The song continues, and Dean is so into it that he is no longer watching the road very closely. Castiel is looking at the star-filled sky out the front window, listening to the off-tune but somehow delightful voice. He’s happy, and for him, that’s a rather impressive accomplishment. He wishes that there was some way to get this music in Heaven—maybe the peace it incites here could spread to other worlds. Perhaps if every Celestial heard it and started singing along without any cares, holding the hand of the being beside them, they’d forget why they’d ever let hatred invade that beautiful place.

After all, as the voice from the speakers is now repeating, _Love is just a kiss away._

Castiel is the one to notice the movement on the road in front of them. He blinks a few times and squints, trying to make out what the dark mass hurtling towards them could be; their vehicle’s headlights aren’t helping—they don’t reach very far.

Dean keeps singing, his head thrown back with glee.

The angel squints harder and sharpens his night vision, but the object is moving in such an erratic manner that it’s hard to make out its definitive shape. _Be still!_ he thinks in frustration.

Finally, it moves into range of Dean’s headlights. Castiel recognizes it at once—another car, without its own headlights on, swerving from left to right and heading towards them alarmingly quickly.

Castiel gasps and looks at Dean. The human is now nodding his head to the new song that’s playing, and his eyes are closed. He hasn’t even registered the danger.

The angel hesitates, then closes his own eyes and mutters hushed words. He musters his power as much as he can to try and transport the two of them and this car out of danger; vaguely, he feels his wings trembling against his back as he tries to spread them.

But it’s too late.

There’s the squeal of rubber on pavement, the crunch of metal, and a startled yelp from Dean before the world goes black.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

“Oh, _come_ on!” Gabriel squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can manage, reaching out with all the powers of his mind and his Grace to contact his younger sibling.

Ezekiel stares at him. “What is the matter?"

“He’s...he’s just dropped off the radar,” the Archangel replies, befuddled. His eyes pop open. “I can’t get a read on him anymore.”

“Is he in danger?” Anael inquires.

“I’m not sure.” Golden wings give a nervous shudder. “I think he’s still on Earth, but I ain’t got a clue where anymore.”

“Keep trying.”

“Ezekiel, it’s—”

“Keep. Trying.” There is no room for negotiation in the garrison commander’s tone, and his eyes repeat the order just as bluntly. “We need to get him back here.”

Gabriel grumbles something irritably under his breath, but goes back to tracking the lost Seraph.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Castiel’s body heals itself and he awakens minutes after the impact. He is no longer inside a car, but rather on the road, lying on his back and covered in broken glass. Grunting quietly at the dull throbbing in his head, he sits up and gathers his wits. He’s never been knocked unconscious before—it’s not very pleasant. He resolves never to let it happen again and blinks a few times to re-focus his vision.

There are a pair of black skid marks stretching about twenty feet behind Castiel, and right in front of him the car that had made them lies useless, flipped on its roof and mangled beyond recognition into a strange metal mass. Steam rises from somewhere near the front of it and a variety of colored liquids are leaking from several different locations, gathering in shimmering pools on the cold pavement. It had been a much smaller car than Dean’s, but it must have been going fast enough to—

Where is Dean?

Fear grips Castiel in a way it never has before, and he is on his feet in an instant, glass raining from his clothing and glinting in the moonlight. He looks around frantically and immediately spots Dean’s car behind the other one; it’s a little lopsided and the front of it is bashed in from the collision, but at least it’s not upside-down. Steam is billowing from the disfigured, glass-littered front half as well, and the large front window is completely gone.

Both front seats are empty.

“Dean!” Castiel cannot keep himself from crying out as he rushes towards the human’s car. Bits of debris crunch under his shoes as he runs, and he stops beside the scratched and dented driver’s door. Peering inside, he finds that Dean is not there, and he whirls around to search for him on the pavement.

He locates the man twisted and bloody in the grass beside the road. Both of his legs appear to be broken, pointing in unnatural directions; his clothes are ripped and blood-stained; his ethereal eyes are closed beneath bruised eyelids and his perfect face is torn up completely. His arms are scratched but seem functional, and a smeared crimson trail illustrates his path from the road to this spot—he’d dragged himself here, having apparently remained conscious after the accident, and now…

Castiel drops to his knees in the dirt beside him. “No. You _cannot_ be dead. Not now.” _Not before we officially meet. Not before I get to see you actually smile at me._ The Seraph shakes his head and grabs at Dean’s body, carefully flipping him over onto his back. The man doesn’t react. Castiel presses the palm of his hand against Dean’s chest and focuses—relief nearly knocks him over as he feels a faint but steady heartbeat beneath the cracked ribs.

The angel acts without a second thought. Placing his other hand on Dean’s chest as well, he closes his eyes and chants in an ancient language under his breath. His hands begin to glow, and the light flows from his fingertips to each and every injury outside and inside Dean’s body. Bruises dissipate; bones mend; scratches fade. Castiel pays special attention to the swelling in Dean’s brain, fixing that injury a little more meticulously than the others. The man’s face returns to its unblemished self, the abrasions marring it glowing blue before disappearing. His heartbeat is strong and healthy again after a minute or two.

When he’s finished, Castiel sits back on his heels and breathes heavily. It’s been awhile since he’d done this much healing in one instance, and he’d forgotten how draining it can be. He just hopes that everything he did worked.

As an answer, Dean stirs in the grass and lets out a soft groan. Castiel is back above him in an instant, their faces less than a foot apart.

Those vibrant chartreuse eyes flicker open, focus, and immediately fix themselves on Castiel’s.

The angel’s dark wings bristle with panic, and he freezes. Realization hits him like a blow to the gut—his cloaking spell must have worn off while he was unconscious. Dean can now see him clearly.

 _He can see me._ The thought stirs up emotions in Castiel’s chest that he is entirely confused by. There is affection, fear, hope, and something else milling in the background that is difficult to place. Despite this, the connection between their gazes is something almost magnetic, and he does not ever want to break it.

Dean blinks once, twice. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that escapes is a shallow, hoarse breath.

Snapping himself out of his shock, Castiel softens his expression. “Ssh, _vvrbs obza_ ,” he murmurs, brushing two fingertips over Dean’s forehead. “ _Brgdo_.”

Dean sighs, closes his eyes, and falls into a deep sleep.

Castiel smiles fondly down at him and leans back slightly to brush his wingtip against the man’s slack jaw. He is inexplicably relieved that this human will live to see another day, even if they never meet again.

The angel shudders at that thought. They _will_ meet again. He will not allow the alternative.

As he’s turning this thought over in his head, a familiar voice interrupts it, echoing loudly in his mind: “ _Castiel._ ”

“Gabriel,” Castiel whispers. “No.”

“ _Castiel, Angel of Thursday, I summon you back to Heaven where you belong. And you better come fast, bro, because you’ve got some serious splainin’ to do._ ”

He has to go immediately, has to try and redeem himself. Ezekiel will be absolutely furious, and Anael is probably with him—his face burns at the thought of disgracing himself in front of her.

Slowly, Castiel stands up, his eyes still fixed on Dean’s sleeping form. He spreads his wings, preparing for flight, but hesitates a moment. He can’t just leave the man with no explanation as to why he is still alive—then again, he can’t exactly allege that he was saved by an angel and expect to be believed.

An idea forms, and he goes with it. Reaching over, Castiel brushes his fingers through the sensitive feathers of his top right wing and chooses one from the secondaries. He plucks it quickly, biting his lip to stifle a small yelp of pain, and studies it. It gleams in the low light of the moon and shifts from black to blue to purple as he turns it in his hand.

The angel crouches down beside Dean again and gently lays the feather across his chest, moving one of Dean’s hands over it to hold it in place. “I am sorry for the confusion I have caused you today, dear one,” he murmurs kindly. “And I hope that there will come a time when I can introduce myself to you properly. Perhaps…we could be friends.”

There is no response but the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest and the sound of his relaxed breathing. Castiel still considers it an agreement.

Casting one last glance at the human, the angel stands, spreads his wings, and flies.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Castiel re-appears outside the familiar barrackss, and the first thing he sees is Ezekiel’s livid expression. Anael is beside him, looking more confused and hurt than anything, and Gabriel is beside her, arms crossed over his chest and a disapproving frown on his face. They all seem angry and a little disturbed—Castiel remembers absently that he’s still wearing the long tan coat and the black suit. He flicks his wrist, the coat and the suit jacket disappear, and everything from his shoes to his blue tie blanches white.

The young Seraph looks at each face in turn before settling his blue gaze back on his commander’s. “Ezekiel, please, I can explain everything—”

He is cut off as Ezekiel raises one hand, signaling for silence. “I am sure you can,” he says lowly. “And you will. But not at this moment.” He looks at Gabriel. “Thank you for doing this for us.”

“My pleasure,” Gabriel replies, then fixes his stern gold gaze on Castiel. “But I don’t wanna ever have to do it again; you understand me, little brother?”

Castiel feels his wings droop as he looks down at the dead grass beneath his feet. He thinks he probably knows how those poor, dried-up leaves feel.

“You can leave now, Gabriel,” Anael addresses the Archangel. “But it would be greatly appreciated if you returned soon—you would be a great help in battle.”

Gabriel just shrugs; the gesture reminds Castiel of Dean. “I’ll think about it. Now, sort this out right now or I’ll do it myself.” And he’s gone in a flash of gold.

Less than a full second later, the questions start.

“Why would you lie to us like this?”

“How long did you intend to continue going there?”

“Is Earth the only place you visited, or is there somewhere else we don’t know about?”

“How dare you think you could disregard your responsibilities!”

“Were you wearing _their_ clothing?”

“Why did you not stay here, where it’s safe?”

“ _Safe?_ ” It’s this last question that finally spurs Castiel to respond. He looks up and meets Ezekiel’s gaze head-on, feeling the fire burning in his own eyes. His wings bristle. “It is not ‘safe’ here!” He advances several steps, and a flash of fear passes momentarily over Ezekiel’s face. The sick satisfaction he gets from this makes Castiel even more confident. “Hundreds and hundreds of angels perish every day up here! Fields and forests wither and die everywhere, mourning the loss of life by relinquishing their own! Swords and blades are stained with more blood and Grace with every passing moment. _No one_ is ‘safe’! Can you blame me, brother, for wanting to take a small respite occasionally?”

“Perhaps not,” Anael admits in the other Seraph's stead, attempting to placate her younger brother. She steps between the two of them and tries to speak calmly. “But it would have been better if you had at least told someone where—”

Ezekiel speaks over her in a loud voice, noticeably trying to keep his own quivering wings under control. “Are you not aware, _brother,_ that those very same abominations that you just described happen on your precious Earth, as well?”

“Yes, I am!” Castiel tries to force himself past Anael, but she rests two firm hands on his chest and tries to look him in the eyes. He keeps his gaze fixed on Ezekiel, but he stops moving. “But at least there are places there that one can find relief from it. No matter where I go here, there are reminders. Constant tokens abound that force me to remember the awful things that have happened. I simply cannot bear it any longer.” He pauses, thinking. “And I would have thought the Earth was precious to you, as well.”

This catches the elder Seraph off-guard, and he hesitates for a moment—Castiel knows that he has made a valid point. After contemplating, Ezekiel responds in a quieter voice. “It is precious to me. It is precious to all angels. But it is not where I am needed, nor is it worth endangering my life or my rank.”

“It was worth the life of God’s only Son.” The strange lump returns to his throat as Castiel speaks, and he looks at the angel in front of him in disbelief. “And you would not spare a feather from your wings for it, would you?”

“If it were not absolutely necessary, no, I would not.” Even Anael is surprised at this statement—she turns to face Ezekiel, confused. “And neither should you, Castiel.”

“But I would. I would spare a thousand feathers, a million—I would give all six of my wings for that place!”

“And that would be your mistake to live with for the rest of your existence.” Ezekiel looks at his brother for several long moments, shaking his head in something akin to pity. “Castiel, please. Think about this logically, won’t you? You are an angel. A soldier—and a good one, at that. You were created to defend Father’s Will and protect Heaven—”

“I was _created,_ ” Castiel interrupts, “to love Him and His creations, not mindlessly slaughter and turn my back on them.”

“And you _are_ loving Him by defending Him in this war."

“No—I am _appalling_ Him.”

“How can you know that?” Something in Ezekiel snaps, and he grabs Anael by the shoulders as she tries to hold him back, shoving her forcefully aside and ignoring her yelp of protest as she hits her head on the concrete wall and collapses. Paying no mind, Ezekiel steps towards his other soldier menacingly, maintaining eye contact. “How can you even dare to profess something like that? How can you know His Will?”

“I don’t.” Castiel insists, his voice calming slightly, meeting his commander blink for blink. “I don’t know His Will for the universe, and I have never claimed to. But I do know His Will for me.”

“Oh, do you?” Ezekiel asks with mock intrigue. “Well, then, O Wise One, what is it?”

“When He created me,” Castiel explains patiently, “He told me that He made me different. At first I thought He was talking about my eyes and my wings, and He was, but He meant even more than that. He created me different...here.” He presses his right hand to his chest, over his heart. “I feel more than other angels do—I know, because whenever I try to talk about it with them, they stare at me as if I have gone insane. They do not understand, and neither do you.” He pauses, trying to speak to his friend through his eyes more than his words. “He told me that He created me this way for a greater purpose, a special one. And I do not think for a moment that it was to kill His other creations.”

“How can you know that that is not what He intended for the rest of us?” Ezekiel asks after a moment.

“Because of the very nature of that statement!” Castiel exclaims. “How could _you_ think that a loving, righteous, and merciful God would create something as beautiful as an angel, and intend it only to destroy? We may have the power to kill, but we also have the power to heal and bless! We are shepherds, not poachers!"

“We are whatever we have to be to defend Him!”

“And that is your problem, brother! You are blinded by your wayward sense of purpose,” the younger Seraph says adamantly. He extends a placating hand, stepping forwards. “If you would only expand your mind and your heart—”

“ _ENOUGH!_ ” Ezekiel roars, and flies forwards.

Castiel is cut off by a brutal punch to his face, and he reels back and hits the concrete wall behind him. Dazed, he slides down until he is sitting lopsidedly on the floor, one hand cradling his probably-fractured jaw. The metallic tang of blood pools in his mouth, and he spits off to the side as Ezekiel approaches him with slow, calculated steps.

“Enough,” the commander repeats more quietly, his rage now a burning, silent simmer beneath the surface of his radiant golden eyes. He studies the younger angel, standing at his full height and flaring his wings to make himself look even more menacing. “The words you are speaking do not sound like words that an angel would say. They are spoken like a human.”

Castiel coughs and looks up at Ezekiel, a few flecks of crimson staining his white trousers. He says nothing.

“And your eyes—they are not the eyes of an angel. They never have been.” Ezekiel bends down and grabs the younger Seraph’s face roughly in his hand, ignoring the pained whimper as he presses down on the bruised bone. He forces Castiel to look at him, and scoffs in disgust at what he sees. “They are _human_ eyes. That is why you love the Earth so much—you belong there. No wonder Father left so soon after creating you. He must have been so ashamed."

 _No._ Castiel tries to shake his head in defiance. He grabs Ezekiel’s wrist in a weak grip. “B-Brother, please—”

“I am starting to doubt,” Ezekiel intones, “that I was ever your brother.”

This shocks Castiel into stopping his struggling. He stares up at the older angel, confusion and dying hope written on his face.

Ezekiel stares him down for several more heartbeats before releasing him. As he stands back up, he speaks, ignoring once again the sputtering of the angel beneath him. “However, I still love you, Castiel.” He wills the blood off of his own hands, but leaves the other angel as he is. “And I will still have you in my garrison, if that is where you wish to be. Your loss would be felt sorely. But you must promise me one thing.”

He crouches down. Auric meets azure once more.

“You must promise that you will never set foot on Earth outside of an order again.”

Castiel is silent, looking blankly up at him as blood leaks past his chapped lips.

Ezekiel waits, then stands. “Very well.” He turns his back to the younger angel and walks over to the slumped form of Anael. “I will give you twenty-four hours to consider my offer. If you turn it down, then I will move to have you imprisoned for treason.”

With that, he vanishes, taking the still-unconscious Anael with him.

So many emotions are flooding Castiel’s mind and heart right now; it is a great effort to discern any of them. He manages to identify sadness, anger, betrayal, defeat, and hatred—this last one shocks him, but he does nothing to get rid of it. He had had no idea that Ezekiel believed all of those things. Perhaps part of him had always suspected, but to have those suspicions confirmed is devastating. To discover that someone he had considered his brother and friend, had always harbored such disdain for him deep within himself…it _hurts_.

And his jaw hurts, too. With a grunt, Castiel raises one hand from the dirty floor and presses it to the side of his face. The blood and fracture are gone in an instant, but there is still a dull ache left behind—a reminder of his brother's cruelty.

Slowly, the blue-eyed angel struggles to his feet, using the cold stone wall as support. When he has regained his footing, he casts his gaze around the darkened barrackss, at the place his life used to revolve around. A sickening feeling pools in his gut at the very thought. In a sudden rage, he straightens up and lets out the loudest shriek he can manage, his wings and closed eyes exploding with light, shaking the walls around him until a few stones are knocked loose.

When the echo fades, Castiel opens his eyes again, panting and not even a little sated.

It does not take him long to realize he is no longer alone.

The air in the room seems to thin, and a strange aura saturates the atmosphere. Lightning crackles in the farthest corner of the barrackss, flashing and surging in the form of two immense wings as Castiel turns to look. Between the massive appendages is the lean silhouette of another Celestial. An eerie blue light spreads over the entire far wall as this new arrival spreads his electric plumage; Castiel shivers at the sight, his feathers bristling at the static in the air.

The rebellion in Heaven after God’s departure—and perceived betrayal—had taken many forms. But perhaps the strangest and most disturbing had been the angels that had felt so abandoned by their Father, so forlorn and worthless, that they had ripped out their own wings and forced themselves to Fall. Most angels, after committing this horrible act against themselves, never looked back and embraced their new mortality. Normally it was the lower-ranking angels, the Cherubim and Dominions. Seraphim had abstained from it, and Archangels hadn’t dared to even think of it.

But not Raphael.

After taking charge, Raphael had done what none of the other Archangels had even dreamt of doing: he’d ripped out his own golden wings and forsaken them to the flames of eternal damnation, a symbol of irreconcilable rebellion. But he hadn’t stopped there—instead of giving up the rest of his Grace and accepting his new wingless state, he had taken God’s duty into his own hands and created a new pair of wings for himself. These were not made of flesh and bone, however; they were pure electricity, arcing out of the angel’s back and stretching almost twice the span of his organic wings. They struck awe and fright into the souls of most all who viewed them, and gave the Archangel even more authority over his subjects.

Castiel is no exception. He stares in a strange mix of horror and amazement as the dark-skinned elder angel makes his slow way across the barracks towards him, his unblinking golden eyes piercing into Castiel’s with a dangerous intensity.

“Hello, lost lamb.” Raphael’s voice is like thunder and rain, meshing appropriately with the low, electric buzzing of his abstract wings. “I believe you are in need.”

The Seraph keeps his gaze steady for a few more seconds, then looks down at his dirtied white shoes. The very act of remaining in the same room as this Archangel, let alone looking directly at his cold eyes, is taxing and, in a way, surreal. “I have no idea what you mean,” he responds, unsure and confused.

Raphael smirks. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s the truth.” He stops a number of feet in front of Castiel and just looks at him, seemingly studying his every feature, from his turned-in feet to the sharp cut of his cheekbones. His pseudo wings dim a bit and draw closer to his body, as if providing warmth. “You see, I have been watching you for a good long while, Castiel. And I have acquired the ability to tell when you are distressed.”

At this, the younger angel’s head shoots up and he fixes the Rebel leader with a questioning gaze. _Impossible._ The two of them have never even met before, and Castiel is quite certain he would be able to sense the presence of an Archangel lurking near him. There’s no way Raphael has been watching him—he’s got an entire legion of warriors to command; surely he couldn’t have the time or the real desire to observe—

“But I _do,_ young one. I do.” The older creature takes a few more steps into Castiel’s space, and Castiel finds himself unable to move as Raphael extends a smooth but ancient hand to brush delicately over the skin of his cheekbone. “Do you think I am unaware of your skill, your unique composition, your other-ness? I am God!” His fingertips linger just beneath the Seraph’s right eye as if transfixed. “You are a special angel, Castiel, very useful, and I have long wondered why you so unwisely chose the wrong side of this war.”

Castiel swallows hard, still frozen. “I-It is not I who chose unwisely, brother.”

“Your misplaced faith will be your downfall.” Raphael draws his hand away from Castiel’s face but keeps his knowing gaze fixed there.

“I have faith in my Father,” Castiel retorts. Confidence worms its way back into his wavering voice as he continues. “I have faith in Him, and in peace, and in love. Even if that faith is misplaced, I will not move it.”

Raphael nods in mock understanding, clasping his hands behind his back. He turns, for the first time placing his back to Castiel, and begins to pace. “Noble footholds, indeed. It is only unfortunate that none of them hold any real meaning here anymore.”

“But they still mean something somewhere.”

“You mean, on Earth?”

The Seraph replies “Yes” before considering the consequences of such a response.

The Archangel is quick to whirl around on his heel and face Castiel again, something like glee in his eyes, and Castiel knows he has just dug his own grave.

Raphael’s face and voice remain coolly passive as he speaks, but his wings crackle excitedly and his eyes continue to dance. “Is that why you have been neglecting your brethren to fly off to that place for almost a year?” At Castiel’s shocked and embarrassed silence, he continues. “I did tell you I have been watching you, did I not? That means I know where you go, what you do...and who you meet.”

 _Dean,_ Castiel thinks, and he bristles. The fierce protectiveness that Castiel had felt for the human as he’d healed his broken body surges up again, and his timidity is forgotten at once. The reassuring weight of his angel blade settles in his right hand and he shifts his stance to one more defensive. “If you are telling the truth,” he says lowly, ducking his head, “then you will know to whom I refer when I say this: If you so much as singe a single hair on his head, I will be the one to destroy you. That is a promise.”

“Believe me, Castiel, I have no intention of touching him at all!” Raphael holds up his hands innocently. “I know what he means to you.”

“You couldn’t possibly.”

“I could, and I do.” The hands lower. “I know that he is the physical incarnation of everything you love in humanity. I know that you saved his life when you could have easily let him die.” Eying Castiel’s midnight wings, Raphael smiles. “I know that you left a piece of yourself with him before abandoning him. And I know that you have every intention of returning to him, unseen, multiple times in the future.”

“You are correct,” Castiel admits, but his ferocity doesn’t lessen. “And there is nothing you can do, short of killing me, that will keep me from doing so.”

“I did not come here to keep you from doing so, brother—I came here to _help_ you.”

Confusion warps the Seraph’s face. His grip on his blade loosens incrementally. “What do you mean?”

“I came here,” the Archangel clarifies, “to offer you your freedom.”

“Why?”

“Because I am more merciful than my predecessor. And because I value you not only as a soldier, but as a being—a being with a conscience, a being with dreams. You are peculiar, Castiel, but then…” Raphael glances down at his white shoes almost shyly and shrugs his shoulders; his great electric wings give a twitch. “...so am I. We are alike.”

“Your ‘peculiarity’ was your own doing, Raphael,” Castiel spits bitterly. “I was _created_ like this. I never wanted to—to feel like I don’t belong among my own siblings, my own _kind!_ ” That infernal lump returns to his throat, but he swallows it back in favor of continuing his rant, fixing his elder with a hard, accusing stare. “You still have a place here, however inappropriate it may be. And I cannot believe I am admitting this...but I envy you for that.” The Seraph closes his eyes and sighs as he feels his shoulders slump. “Is it that surprising to anyone that I want to escape? To look elsewhere for my greater purpose?”

“No it is not, brother.” The sincerity in Raphael’s tone is almost disturbing. “I understand.”

Still wary, Castiel does not respond.

“Let me explain.” Raphael begins pacing again, the glow of his wings casting eerie shadows on the stone walls around them. “I know how unhappy you are here in Heaven. Though you are an amazing soldier, I have observed countless times your reluctance to engage in violent combat with other angels. You love unconditionally; your faith is unwavering; you are consistently hopeful for a peaceful outcome in any and every situation. I know that you are your happiest when you are on Earth, among humans and observing their behavior. And ever since your most recent encounter, you have been even more unsatisfied with your existence here. You even said you would ‘give up your wings’—an angel’s most precious asset—for that planet. I know personally how deep an emotion must penetrate to warrant the willingness for such a sacrifice.

“Now, as an Archangel, I have the power to summon you to Heaven at will—but I also have the power to cast you down from it and bring you back afterwards, unharmed and whole. And you have clearly expressed a desire to be human; in fact, the only thing separating you from them is your Grace. Therefore, I will give you a choice.”

Castiel’s wings bristle interestedly at that word. He is still hesitant to a degree, but this offer is too incredible to ignore. “Name it,” he says.

Raphael grins. “You can choose to stay here, among your brothers and sisters, and kill mindlessly in the name of an absent Father. Or, you can live for a time on Earth as a human, searching for your ‘purpose’, with all of the benefits of humanity at your disposal. Because I am a caring and generous God, I will even place you in the town where Dean resides. I will grant you whichever option you choose. However,” he adds quickly, cutting off the Seraph as he opens his mouth to speak, “there are conditions.”

“What are they? Tell me!” The urgency Castiel’s rumbling voice conveys gives Raphael a sort of sick pleasure.

“Obviously, you would have to give up your Grace in order to become human, but I do not think that would be hardship for you.” The lack of reaction on Castiel’s face is confirmation enough for the older angel. “Secondly, you would only stay there for one month, and when you returned, you would have to change your loyalties—that is, you would fight for me.”

All hope fades from Castiel’s eyes to be replaced by anger once again. “If those are your terms, then my answer is no.”

“Patience, child. I have not yet finished. You would be able to earn yourself a permanent place among humanity by accomplishing a simple task: finding love.”

Castiel is puzzled. Surely that would not be difficult—humans have an immeasurable capacity for love and affection. He would need only to do a good deed for someone, or somehow earn their trust. “Is...that all?” he asks.

“Yes, but the love you find must rival your own,” Raphael explains. “After all, I know that it is what you desire the most. It must be purer than your Grace, more enduring than your immortal life, more loyal than your loyalty to your Father and your cause. It must be deeper than the deepest ocean and just as breathtaking. If you do not achieve this, you will become a soldier, bound by orders and rules, again—only this time, on my side of this civil war. It is your choice, Castiel.” The Archangel turns and fixes his cool golden gaze on Castiel’s blue one. “What will it be?”

The dark-winged angel looks around himself at the cold interior of this barracks. In the distance, his exceptional hearing picks up the faint sounds of a nasty brawl occurring somewhere else in this Realm. As he watches, several blades of green grass on the other side of the doorway brown and wither, signaling at least one death—a familiar sight. He cringes as he thinks of the violence, the hatred that now permeates every molecule of air in Heaven, and remembers the peace that he’d felt sitting in that antique automobile beside the human with eyes like leaves, singing along to a song he’d never heard but connected with immediately. Contentment and warmth roll over Castiel like a strange fog as he recalls those moments, making everything clearer.

Finally, he lifts his silver blade and considers its glinting surface, thinks of all the lives it has taken, the blood and Grace it has been stained with. Ezekiel’s words from before echo in his mind: " _I will still have you in my garrison, if that is where you wish to be._ "

 _I...I don’t think it is._ The blade falls to the stone ground with a resounding metallic clatter.

Sunsets. Laughter. Free will. Grocery stores.

Dean. That’s where Castiel wishes to be.

With a single nod, his decision is made.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**


	3. Part II

_Falling slowly_

_Eyes that know me_

_And I can’t go back…_

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

 Voices.

That’s the first thing his frazzled mind registers. They’re floating around him like vapors, tangible and concrete yet unattainable and abstract at the same time. His head is pounding, but not as much as it typically does in the morning. His stomach loudly protests its emptiness as he slowly blinks his eyes open. Blinded by the sudden flood of bright, sterile light that assaults his pupils, he groans quietly and pushes himself into a sitting position on the uncomfortable mattress he’s found himself lying on.

“Dean! Oh, thank God.”

“S...Sam?” His throat hurts, causing his brother's name to rasp painfully out of his mouth.

“Yeah, it’s me.” A massive shadow moves in the periphery of his still-cloudy vision and he turns his head towards it, squinting. “Been sitting at your bedside for hours now. Doctors said you’re fine, shockingly, but I didn’t believe ‘em at first.”

“Uh, why’s it shocking, ‘xactly?” Dean squishes his fist against his right eye and sniffs. “God, I’m tired. This bed is just—wait.” _Doctors?_ He straightens and scans his gaze around the small room they're in. There’s a television monitor on a stick beside his bed; everything is either white or beige; the only window is currently shuttered by blinds. It looks like a—“The hell am I?”

“In the hospital. The nurse just left.” Yup. Suspicions confirmed. “You were in a huge accident.”

“Accident?” Dean digs around in his memory, tugging harshly at his own spiky hair, but comes up empty. “What—I-I don’t—I don’t remember anything. What kind of accident?”

Sam leans forward further in his chair, and Dean can finally make out the sharp-but-gentle lines of his face clearly. Hazel eyes meet deep green as Sam grips Dean’s arm comfortingly. “Car accident, dude. You and some drunk bastard out on Linden Street in the woods—aw, fuck, that reminds me.” His expression changes from relieved to a bit apprehensive as he brushes a lock of long hair out of his face. “Um...Baby’s dead.”

“ _Huh?_ ”

“The other guy—he didn’t make it, by the way, but the police ruled it his fault so his insurance’s paying for everything—he was friggin’ plastered, man; plowed right into you with his truck and hit you head-on.”

Despair punches Dean in the chest and he collapses back onto the thin pillows behind him. “Oh, son of a _bitch!_ ” That Impala had been his _life_ , his most prized possession that he’d inherited from his father several years ago. “Not Baby, not my car, oh no!”

“Don’t sweat it,” the younger man reassures him, moving his giant paw to his brother’s shoulder. “I shipped the wreck over to Bobby’s after sneaking it outta the impound lot. It’s salvageable, he says.”

Dean takes several deep, steadying breaths and rests his forearm over his eyes. “‘Mkay, what else? How long I been out?”

“Around twelve hours. Crash was last night.”

“Twelve hours? Goddamn, that’s the most I’ve slept in months!” _Then why do I feel like such shit?_ Scrubbing a hand across his forehead, Dean slowly sits up again and turns to Sam. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but freezes suddenly.

He doesn't hurt.

He’d been in a head-on collision last night with a drunk driver, most likely going at least fifteen over the 60-mile-per-hour county road limit. Baby had been more than totaled. The other guy had died. By all accounts, any movement at all should be excruciating. Sure, his head is throbbing and his limbs are all a little heavy and slow, but he doesn’t feel any broken bones or scrapes or anything anywhere else on his body.

 _The fuck?_ Slightly panicked now, Dean raises his hands in front of his face and studies them closely—not even a scab mars his freckled skin. He looks down at himself and finds that his clothes are in tatters, ripped and filthy, the edges of his jeans and flannel shirt frayed as if he’d been thrown from a vehicle, but there’s no blood stains or any other evidence of his apparent ordeal. His bare forearms, revealed by the remains of his shirt sleeves, are needle free, and he finds that he isn’t even hooked up to any heart monitors. The fact that he’s still in his clothes from last night is a bit confusing, too.

Sam notices the tensing of his brother’s expression and his brow furrows. “What? What hurts? Are you alright? They said you were fine; I knew they were wrong, I just knew it! _Nurse_ —”

“Sammy! Shut up!” Dean sets his hands back down in his lap and blinks a few times. “I’m fine, I’m completely fine. That’s the weird part.” He faces Sam again. “You said that guy hit me head-on, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam affirms, “and they found him crushed in his car. You were on your back on the side of the road in these ripped-up clothes, fucking _sleeping_ , without a scratch on you. No broken bones, no brain damage, not even a little scrape.” He shakes his head incredulously as if he doesn’t even believe the words coming out of his own mouth. “Oh, and get this—there was a receipt for a bottle of Jack in your wallet, and I know you don’t let that shit sit for more than an hour before downing it. And the bottle wasn’t in the car, so you must’ve drank it. I _know_ you did. But they tested your BAC and it was zero.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I know!” Sam shakes his head again. “I told them to test it again and it came back the same, and it was the same after the third time, too. But they kept you overnight because they couldn’t wake you up, even though everything else about you was fine.” He pauses, the corners of his mouth turning down in a concerned frown. “You sure you can’t remember anything? ‘Cuz we’d all like an explanation for this.”

“I…” Dean shuts his eyes tightly and rests his head in his hands, combing desperately through his mind for any information about the last twelve hours.

_A crisp wind. An awesome sky. The taste of whiskey. The Stones on the radio. Being cold and then warm—drunk and then sober. Metal crunching. Darkness. Pain._

_And..._

“Blue,” Dean whispers after a minute. “I remember blue.”

“Blue?” Sam asks, befuddled. “That’s it?”

“No, but it’s the sharpest thing I remember.”

“Why?”

Dean looks down at his hands, fiddles with the edge of his shirt. “I dunno.”

“Maybe it was the sky or something,” Sam offers.

“Yeah, maybe.” A slightly awkward pause. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—I did drink that Jack. And I was pretty fuckin' hammered, man.” _For awhile, at least._

“And yet, the tests say otherwise.” Sam shrugs. “I dunno what to tell you. Maybe Mom was right.”

Dean’s head snaps up at this comment. “What?"

Sam blinks softly, a small grin on his lips. “Didn’t she used to tell you that angels were watching over you? Maybe she was right.”

When Dean doesn’t respond, Sam offers to get him a drink of water. He accepts, and the instant his brother leaves the room, he collapses back on the bed and stares wide-eyed at the ceiling.

“ _Angels are watching over you, sweetheart._ ” His mother’s voice echoes in his head and he has to bite back the sudden surge of emotion that threatens to crest within him. Dean had been told that every night as a child before bed, after the nightly story and the Beatles lullaby. Mary Winchester would read, sing, run her fingers through his sandy-blonde hair, and tell him that God’s angels were protecting him. He smiles gently at the memory, trying to recall the exact timbre her voice had held when she’d spoken. It’s hard to do when he hasn’t heard it in over twenty years. Usually what he hears when he thinks of her is the crackling of flames, the sound of his father’s desperate shouting, the wailing of infant Sam as he’d carried him out of the inferno—

The familiar sadness starts to seep into Dean's bones and he shakes it off before it can get too deep. Now is not the time to be thinking about Mom.

Even though, as Dean thinks even harder about what he remembers, she might have actually been right.

The blue Dean remembers isn’t the sky or the car that hit him. It isn’t a bird that flew past while he drove; it isn’t the moonlight reflecting off of Baby’s black hood; it isn’t the pavement under him. It's something much stranger, much more confusing, much more inexplicable. Something that's burned into his memory as strongly as the feeling of smoke filling his young lungs all those years ago.

_Blue eyes._

_Concerned, ancient, ethereal blue eyes unlike any he’s ever seen before, hovering inches above his own. The odd sensation of swimming. Of floating. Of drowning. A force like magnetism preventing him from looking away, unnecessary since he didn't want to in the first place._

_The feeling of being seen for the very first time._

_Then, a soft touch. A murmured word. And finally...peace._

Dean has no idea how to explain any of this. All he knows is that it’s what he remembers, and that he’s never felt such a strong connection to a pair of eyes before, let alone to the person they belong to.

And if they’re the last thing he remembers, whoever they belong to must have saved his life. But how?

While Dean’s contemplating this, Sam returns to the room with a paper bag and a paper cup full of ice water. He hands the cup to the older man and sits back in his chair. “Here ya go,” he says with a wide smile. “Oh, and I ran into your nurse in the hall and told her you were awake. She says that they just need to do some final check-up things or whatever, and then you can leave.”

“Awesome,” Dean says as he takes a sip. Smacking his lips, he nods at the bag in Sam’s lap. “What’s that?”

“This? Well, it’s further proof that Mom was some kind of psychic.” Sam opens it up and pulls out something slender and black. “They found it on your chest after the crash, and you were holding onto it so hard that it took them, like, an hour to pry it out of your hand.” He passes it carefully to his brother. “It’s a feather.”

“No freaking way.” Dean takes it and holds it up in front of his face, turning it slightly in his fingers. It's about six or seven inches long and three inches wide, and it's beautiful. The thing is soft, so soft that it feels almost vaporous and Dean has to be careful not to drop it. Its sheen appears black at first, but as the light hits the barbs at different angles, different shades and hues surface and the plumage becomes positively iridescent. Every color of the spectrum shows up as Dean watches, mesmerized. Without looking away from it, he asks, “What bird is it from?”

“They think crow,” Sam replies. “Or raven. They’re actually not sure.” His eyebrows waggle teasingly and he adds, lisping, “Maybe it’s from an _angel!_ ”

“Shut up!” Dean shoots a quick glare at his younger brother. “That’s stupid. Angels aren’t real. Mom just added that onto her bedtime stories to make me feel special or something.” He shakes his head in disdain, but his green gaze remains fixed upon the plumage between his fingers.

Sam just stares at him for several long moments before clearing his throat obnoxiously and standing once more. “Whatever. You’ve got your drink and your toy. I’ll go find that doctor that’s supposed to clear you to leave. Be back in a couple minutes.”

“‘Kay,” Dean says absently and doesn’t even look up when he hears the hospital room door open and close again.

He remains transfixed by the feather, spinning it around and around in the bright light of the small room.

“They’re just stories,” he mutters, but no one hears him.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

The greeting they receive when they arrive at Bobby's salvage yard after an incident is typically the same: a head shake, a concerned scan from tired blue-grey eyes, and a mumbled “Idjits” forced out between gritted teeth. It's expected, though—ever since John Winchester bit the dust several years ago, Bobby has become Sam and Dean's surrogate father in every sense of the word; he'd even moved his business from Sioux Falls to Lawrence for their convenience. He cooks for them when they’re hungry, takes care of them when they're hurt, and gives them somewhere to sleep when they can't find anywhere for themselves, which is quite often. Truth be told, if it weren't for Dean's job here at Singer Salvage and Sam's skill at big game hunting, the Winchesters wouldn’t have much of anything in the way of a livelihood.

But then, they don't have much in the way of a livelihood to begin with. Sam routinely drives around the western half of the country during specific open seasons to get his hands on the best kills before anyone else, and Dean hangs around here in Lawrence. Sometimes he takes the Impala out to try his hand at hunting—he packs the trunk with enough rifles and knives to arm a small militia—and he's pretty good, maybe even better than Sam. Despite his younger brother's insistence, though, he  stays here at the yard doing what he loves best: fixing cars and drinking. He's got an apartment of his own on the edge of town, but most of the time he'd rather be here with Bobby. Even if the old man can't make a decent apple pie to save his life.

“You know he's gonna be pissed at you, right?” Sam asks as they approach the front door of the small house on the edge of the yard.

“He usually is,” Dean responds and pushes the old door open, triggering the brass bell that announces their arrival.

Sure enough, Dean walks into the homely living room and is met immediately with a firm, almost painful grip on his shoulders as Bobby takes hold of him.

After a good fifteen seconds of head-to-toe scrutinizing, the older man relaxes a little and gives a long-suffering sigh. “The shit you boys put me through, I swear.” He looks up and meets Dean's gaze from under the brim of his old blue-and-white ball cap. “Yer an idjit, y'know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean replies with an easy grin—there's no getting around that accusation. “But I'm the idiot who lived, apparently.”

“I guess you are.” Bobby releases his hold and shakes his head again, confusion plain on his face. He scratches his beard thoughtfully as he glances at the ground. “I still can't figure out how, though.”

“Why?” Sam asks as he enters, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the top edge of the doorway. _Sasquatch,_ Dean thinks affectionately.

“Because of the state of that car when you showed up with it at friggin' three thirty this morning!” Bobby exclaims. “I've seen that Impala scratched up, sure, but the thing's mangled now. I dunno how I’m gonna be able to fix it up before Christmas.” He fixes Dean with another stare, more somber now. “Honestly, boy, I've got no idea how you're still here.”

“Neither do I, really,” Dean admits softly. The whole angel-rescue theory is pretty weak, not to mention impossible. And yet, the sleek feather is tugging at him like a leaden weight in his jeans pocket and he can't seem to shake from his mind the image of blue eyes staring down at him. The whole blood alcohol content thing is pretty damn suspicious, too.

 _Maybe I just metabolized it weirdly fast,_ he thinks, but he knows instantly that he's wrong. Jack is his go-to drink—he'd put it in his cereal if he could. It always leaves him somewhere between pleasantly buzzed and too-compromised-to-stand. There's just no way that a whole bottle had left his system in less than twenty-four full hours. And yet, the three tests had apparently told a different story. It's oddly frustrating.

Dean really doesn't know why he's so concerned about it. So he got in a wreck and made it out without a scratch, so what? It's happened before. Not to him, but he's heard stories. It's completely plausible, and he's now living proof. Those BAC machines must've been malfunctioning or something—that's happened, too. He'd just experienced two statistical anomalies in one night. Even _that's_ a possibility.

But those eyes...he's still got no explanation for those eyes. They could've belonged to one of the policemen who found him, but he'd talked to all of them earlier this afternoon to explain what he remembered from the accident and none of them had had the same burning, almost supernatural intensity in their eyes that he remembers from last night. He'd also ruled out hallucination earlier—he's hallucinated before for reasons he isn't entirely proud of, and never before has a projection of his own mind been that incredibly authentic.

Those eyes had been real, and so had the person they belonged to. But there'd been no evidence of anyone else at the crash site, and the other driver had been crushed in his own truck, so what else is there to consider? What other explanation is there?

Dean thinks for several long moments, but comes up empty once again.

The elder Winchester realizes he hasn't been paying attention to the conversation happening in front of him for about thirty seconds when his brother's voice breaks through his mental fog. “...time, Dean. What matters is that you _are_ here, and we're gonna celebrate like it's nineteen ninety-nine tonight.” Sam holds up the grocery bags from the store they'd stopped at after leaving the hospital. Their contents clink and slosh as he peeks inside, refreshing his own memory. “I got Guinness, Jack, Cuervo...pretty much everything, and enough of it to start our own bar.”

“Listen, son.” Bobby smirks and walks over to a cabinet against the far wall. With a flick of his wrist, he unlatches the metal lock and swings it open, revealing several dusty bottles of scotch, tequila, rum, and more than a few UBQLs: Unclassified Beverages of Questionable Legality. “You know we got that here already.”

Sam shrugs and grins. “Just thought I'd add to the stash.”

“You always do.” Bobby takes out a bottle of something old and amber-colored, and the “celebration” begins.

The night consists of hard alcohol, old movies, and loud laughter. Once again, Sam invites Dean to come with him on his next hunting trip, out west for deer (“It's _archery_ , man; you _rock_ at that! C'mon, you gotta come at least once. It's the 'family business,' remember?”) and once again, Dean turns down the offer (“I'm a mechanic, Sammy. 'S what I do. Don't wanna go out and get all covered in mud and blood and shit when I could be covered in oil and trans fluid.”). Bobby stays out of the conversation as usual, sitting back in his ratty old chair and nursing a fifth of whiskey as he watches his boys bicker like the children they never got to be.

John Winchester had been one sick, sad bastard. After the fire that killed Mary, something had broken in his head and his heart, leaving him a drunk, broken shell of the man he used to be. He'd given up on therapy and medication early on and began to externalize his internal anguish on animals. Five days a week, he'd leave Dean and Sam alone in their run-down shack of a house and he'd hunt. Everything from bullfrogs to bucks was fair game to him, and he took full advantage of the power he held over creation by killing them in the most creative ways he could think of.

Most hunters are humane—they try to make the animal's death as quick and painless as possible as a form of respect. That wasn't John. He would shoot a deer in one leg, chase it as it limped helplessly away, then systematically take out its other legs by aiming for its knobby knees. Only when the poor creature was lying in the dirt, wheezing and whimpering and begging to die, would he finally kill it. Slowly. By slitting its throat or cutting it open from nose to tail while it was still alive. It was his own twisted way of spiting whatever deity had created these creatures, because that same deity had been the thing that killed his beautiful young wife. And if he couldn't hurt it directly, he'd sure as hell find some way to hurt it indirectly. As long as he was causing it some kind of pain, he was satisfied.

However, one did not have to look further than the treatment of his children to see just how displeasing John Winchester was to God. When he left Sam and Dean to hunt, there would typically be nothing to live on but dry cereal in the pantry, a few pieces of rotting fruit in a cabinet, and tap water. Dean began stealing food from the local Farmers Market when he was about six. Sam was taught as soon as he was old enough to understand why he had to do it. No one ever saw them come or leave—one second there were ten tomatoes piled on a table; the next there were only seven. And when John had discovered that his children were thieves, well...hunger hadn't been the only thing making the boys cry with pain anymore.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, John had loved his children. He'd just had an unclear way of showing it. Every kill he made he sold to provide them with as much food and shelter as he could, and they were always his first thought when he woke up and his last thought before he passed out from drunkenness or exhaustion every night. His problem had probably been that he loved them too much. Dean had his mother's eyes, Sam had her dimples, and they both had her kind heart. He was reminded of her every time he saw them; somewhere along the line it must have just gotten too painful for him to deal with. Eventually, this pain had manifested itself in the form of physical, verbal, and emotional abuse. Understandable, to a degree, but still deplorable.

Bobby had met John in the woods outside Sioux Falls in the autumn of '85, two years after Mary's death and about eight months after John had started his unconventional coping method. When he'd heard the other man's story, something in his chest had twinged with sympathy—he'd lost his own wife a few years back to cancer. The two had bonded, and eventually Bobby had moved his salvage yard down from South Dakota to Kansas, where he'd become the boy's surrogate uncle of sorts. He was the one to teach them how to play catch with a baseball, how to behave at the dinner table, how to find the problem in a broken car and fix it. He'd even taught them the ins and outs of hunting, from firing a rifle to throwing a knife. He hadn't wanted the boys to turn out as obsessed as their father, so he'd kept these particular lessons few and far between.

They'd turned out alright, if Bobby had to give an opinion—they were both smart, strong, handsome. Sam had gone to school and met a girl. Dean had decided he wanted to travel, so that's what he'd done. They grew up fast, but they grew up well.

Then one afternoon in August a few summers back, John had been found in a forest on the border of two small towns in Nebraska, gashes all over his face and torso and bear fur under his fingernails. He'd been destroyed by the very thing he'd sought to destroy: creation. Just like that, 27-year-old Dean and 22-year-old Sam were orphans, and Bobby became their everything. Sam left Jessica, dropped out of Stanford, and took up hunting again—though he claims to this day that a personal vendetta against wild animals has nothing to do with his sudden renewed interest—and Dean had moved back to Lawrence from Chicago, suddenly desperate to get away from his “unattached drifter” lifestyle and take up roots somewhere for good. He'd inherited his father's car, rooted himself in the town where he'd began, but he still tends to drift every once and awhile, usually from bar-to-bar and bed-to-bed. Neither of the boys have ever had a real family or a real home, but with Bobby, they've gotten pretty damn close.

One thing's for certain, though. Throughout their difficult, painful lives, Sam and Dean have definitely seen for themselves the proof in the mantra that Bobby taught them at a young age: “Family don't end with blood.”

If the old drunk leaves this world tomorrow having only taught these boys that one thing, he'll be happy. He grins minutely to himself and sips his drink, taking in the young Winchesters' laughter and soaking up their smiles like the rare rays of sunshine they are.

Eventually they're all well-and-truly smashed, an expected occurrence during their “parties,” and their yawns become steadily more frequent as the night wears on. Two a.m. rolls around in what feels like minutes, shocking the lot of them when they finally think to glance at their respective watches. Dean's eyes widen as he sees the time and he downs the last of his current drink—what number he's on, he's not sure—before getting up from the worn couch he's settled into. “'M gonna go take a shower,” he announces a little too loudly, his speech slurred. “Feel fuckin' gross. Got hospital all over me.”

“Dean”— _hic_ —“hospitals are sterile en...en-vi-yern...places,” Sam interjects haltingly. His glass of tequila sloshes in his hand as he sits up on the couch. “Yer clean, dude.”

“Don' feel like it,” Dean replies before turning and giving Bobby a sloppy salute. “G'night, Bobby.”

“'Night, Dean.” The older man is much more in-control of his faculties than the other two, thanks to years of practice. He doesn’t bother to ask if Dean is staying the night; he usually does when he's too drunk to walk straight.

Dean nods and makes his way to the staircase on the other side of the house, only stumbling twice in twenty feet. He heads up to the guest room, which is already stocked with several articles of his clothing, grabs a pair of sweatpants and boxers from the dresser, and locks himself in the small bathroom across the hall.

It's the first time he's been alone since the crash, he realizes. Sobering up a little at this thought, he sets his clothes down on the lid of the toilet and turns to the antique wall-mounted mirror above the sink. Not entirely sure what he's looking for, he leans forwards and studies his reflection closely in the glass. The porcelain sink is cold in his hands as he unconsciously grips it, his eyes roving intently over the image of his own face before him. Not a single cut is visible; not a single bruise darkens his skin. He looks nothing like someone who had been thrown from a speeding car less than forty-eight hours ago.

Next, Dean shucks off the black T-shirt his brother had brought him to change into at the hospital. Once the tanned expanse of his well-sculpted chest is revealed, he takes a minute to look over it in the mirror and sees nothing strange once again. Running his hands slowly over his skin, Dean feels for any out-of-place scars. He finds nothing.

Shaking his head at himself, he looks into his own green eyes and mutters, “Why aren't you dead?”

It's a simple, curiosity-fueled question, but at the same time it's not. Dean's not gonna pretend he hasn't felt worthless before, because he has. Ever since he was young, his only jobs in life as appointed by his father were, “Take care of Sammy,” “Watch out for Sammy,” “Feed Sammy something today.” His little brother had always been the priority, and while that may have changed as they got older, Dean's feeling that he himself was only there to be Sam's caretaker had never really left him. Now that Sam's grown (taller than Dean by two full inches, the giant asshole) and can take care of himself, the elder Winchester has had some trouble finding his own place in existence.

Never once while they were growing up had John told him he was proud of him. Never once had John told Sam to do something for his brother for a change. Never once had Dean felt more like Sam's brother than his parent. And that had been more damaging than anyone could have anticipated.

Dean's tried to drown his frequent feelings of self-hatred in several things: alcohol, sex, cars, gambling, even hunting. None of them have really done the job, though, and his thoughts sometimes turn dark. He'd tried mixing pills with beer once, but all that did was make him sick for a few days. He'd held razors to the insides of his wrists on more than one occasion, pressing down painfully into the sensitive skin there, but the courage to pull back and cut it open has always eluded him. Hell, he's been so low that he's sat on the bed in his ramshackle apartment with the muzzle of his .22 pressed against his temple once or twice. But remembering the same three things—Sam, sex, and sunsets—has always brought him back from the precipice of oblivion.

That's why he'd been out last night—to see the sunset from his customary spot in the empty field outside town. He does that every once and awhile, but most often during autumn. October seems to be the best month for viewing this year, so Dean's been out almost every night for the past two weeks to watch as the sun dips below the horizon and turns the sky a million different shades of crimson, yellow, and orange. If there's anything that could make him believe his mother's old stories of angels and God, it's sunsets.

He briefly wonders what the spectacle would look like reflected in a pair of azure eyes.

This thought is cast from Dean's mind quite quickly, however, as he suddenly gets a whiff of his own two-day-old, sweat-and-whiskey musk. _Christ!_ He covers his nose with his hand, coughing, and strips off the rest of his clothes in a hurry to clean himself. The shower splutters into life and sends down a hot, soothing rain onto Dean's back as he steps under it, sighing contentedly. He scrubs shampoo through his sandy-blonde hair, lathers Old Spice over his grimy skin, and watches with tired eyes as the suds spiral down the drain at his feet. The thought of a quick jerk-off passes through his mind, but he finds that he's far too drunk to get it up and decides to just rinse the soap out of his eyes and shut the water off.

Ten minutes later, he's lying in bed on his back in the dark bedroom, gazing at the star-filled sky outside through the window in the far wall. In his hand is the strange black feather that Sam had given him at the hospital, the one he says Dean had had in his hand at the crash site. He looks at the stars for a few more seconds, then lifts the feather in front of his face. In this darkness, it's barely visible, a mere shadow in Dean's grasp as he twirls it between his fingers. He catches a brief glimpse of deep blue and purple rippling through the soft barbs as they catch the hint of starlight leaking through the window. _Beautiful,_ he thinks absently, feeling the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile. He's hardly ever thought that about a woman, let alone a simple bird feather.

That is, if it's even _from_ a bird.

It's three-thirty in the morning and Dean's still pretty damn wasted, so the fact that he drops his hand down to his chest and closes his eyes to pray for the first time in twenty-five-ish years doesn't surprise him much.

“Uh, God?” he begins, furrowing his brow as he considers what he wants to say. “Um...if You're there, and You're real, and You really _did_ send an angel to save me, I, uh...thanks. But if You didn't, could You please lemme know what th' hell really _is_ goin' on with me? 'Cuz I'm pretty much clueless right now.”

He pauses for a few heartbeats, then breathes, “Why would You save me, anyway?”

Sleep is nagging at the back of his mind, relentless and irresistible, and it only takes a few seconds for Dean to give up the fight and let his body shut down for the night. He rolls onto his stomach and relaxes, but keeps his grip on the feather—strangely, he can't bring himself to let go of it. It tingles where it brushes the calloused skin of his fingertips, fills him with an odd sense of serenity. Tucking that hand under his pillow, Dean closes his eyes again and takes a long, deep breath.

Just before he sinks completely into the void, he thinks he feels the feather tingle and glow with warmth in his grasp, but he chalks it up to inebriation and falls asleep moments later.

He dreams of sunsets, and wings, and blue.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Castiel awakens.

Immediately, he notices some differences in his environment. The air smells different, and he finds it almost difficult to breathe. His body feels lighter when he shifts slightly in the dirt, and he realizes that there are no longer six massive raven wings sprouting from his back. His eyes fly open.

_I'm here. It worked._

_I'm...human._

It's dark, and cold, and far too quiet—he realizes with a pang of sorrow that he can no longer hear the soothing sounds of his brothers and sisters communicating in his head at all times. The comfort those voices provide would be much appreciated at this very moment, in fact, because the strongest thing he can currently sense is pain. His left shoulder is throbbing. As he tries to sit up, he realizes that his whole left side hurts, as well. When he gasps, the pain intensifies, and his exhale stutters out of him in short bursts.

He tries to heal himself. It doesn't work.

Blinking a few times, the Seraph— _ex-_ Seraph, he has to remind himself—waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him and casts his gaze from one side of the landscape to the other. The light of the waning moon reflects off of the massive piles of metal that surround him—he realizes after a few seconds that they're all wrecked automobiles, heaped one upon the other. A few stand alone, appearing to be in better shape than the others. Near the corner of this junk-filled compound is a reasonably small house, with a single light shining from one of the first-floor windows, and Castiel decides that this is probably his best choice of refuge.

He's not exactly sure where he is, though he is fairly certain it is Lawrence, Kansas, as Raphael promised. Absently, he hopes that Dean is somewhere nearby—it's very cold and Castiel doesn’t want to venture too far in his search for the human's familiar face.

He looks back at the small house a few hundred yards away. Hopefully the inhabitants will not mind taking in a temporary visitor.

Castiel struggles to his feet with huffs of breath and a few short groans. He finds that his left ankle is also compromised when he tries to rest some of his weight on it, so he quickly shifts to his right. Wrapping his right arm around himself to cradle his sore ribs, he limps towards the house, not knowing what to expect when he reaches it.

He's a bit dizzy by the time he reaches the rickety front porch, and he fears that he may succumb to unconsciousness once again, despite his earlier vow not to. Shaking his head weakly, he looks up from the splintery wood under his scratched bare feet to the humble green door before him.

The custom for announcing one's arrival at a home, Castiel has observed, is to rap one's knuckles against the door and wait for someone to open it. Uncertainly, he clenches his left hand into a fist and raises it.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

_Tuk-tuk, tuk-tuk, tuk._

Dean is startled awake by the sound of someone knocking on the front door downstairs. The pleasant dream he'd been immersed in fades from his memory almost instantly, much to his dismay. Grunting, he turns over to look at the digital clock on the bedside table— _Five a.m., what the fuck_ —and waits for Sam or Bobby to get it. His head is close to pounding and he just wants to sleep for another two or so hours.

When the percussion pattern repeats a third time, Dean growls to himself and realizes that he'll have to answer the frigging door himself. “Thanks a lot, guys,” he calls to whomever can hear him as he drags himself out from under his covers. He staggers to the staircase, cursing whatever dickwad is forcing him out of bed before sunrise, and heads down to the front door.

He passes through the living room and finds Sam, still fully dressed, passed out on the ratty couch, dead to the world. Bobby is snoring obnoxiously in his favorite armchair, also dressed in his clothes from the day before. Before continuing on, Dean sighs, walks over to the couch, and picks up a blanket from the floor to drape over his little brother. Sam snuggles into it with a sleepy, contented noise, and Dean can't help but grin at him. It's not his fault he sleeps like a rock, after all.

The “guest” with no apparent sense of time or decency has been knocking for three minutes straight now, so Dean finally heads to the door once he's sure his brother and his surrogate father are both suitably comfortable. To be safe, he swipes one of Bobby's handguns from the old writing desk in the corner of the room and cocks it, tucking it into the waistband of his low-hanging flannel sweatpants. He approaches the door and undoes all three locks before swinging it open angrily.

“Al _right_ , ya sonuvabitch, what the hell is your—”

Dean's outraged greeting is cut short as he takes in the appearance of the man before him.

In short, he looks like Forrest Gump after running across the country and back again, minus the beard and shoes. The only clothes he's wearing—jeans and a T-shirt—are grubby and filthy, shaded grey where they used to be white. His feet are bloody and caked with dirt, as is the rest of his visible skin, and he has one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. He's favoring his left foot, and as Dean looks closer he notices that his ankle is tinted purple and badly swollen. _Sprained, most likely._ He's shivering almost violently, his left hand shaking where it's balled into a fist at his side, and the lines in his face seem too deep for someone who can't be older than forty. The dark, matted hair atop his head hangs down over his forehead, almost blocking Dean's view of his eyes, which are quite peculiar themselves.

They're like the sky on a stormy day in the middle of October—grey and tumultuous, twin portals into their owner's very soul. They're unfocused, clouding over quite quickly, and they almost seem empty, as if they're missing something.

Dean doesn't have much time to look at them, unfortunately. All at once this stranger announces in a harsh, deep voice that sounds like it hasn't been used in years, “I am feeling rather strange,” and his eyes close as he starts to tip forwards.

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” Dean catches him before he can collapse, holding him up with two arms around his chest. _It's too early for this shit_ , he thinks bitterly as he drags this impromptu visitor into the living room. At first Dean had suspected drunkenness, but the guy doesn't smell like alcohol—the only really odd thing is the state of his clothes. _Maybe he's just a homeless guy looking for a meal or something. At six in the morning. On a Thursday._

“Sam? Sammy!” Dean grunts when he crosses the threshold into the other room. Muttering a curse under his breath, he pulls his passenger across the floor and settles him on his back beside the couch. “Samantha Winchester, wake up! We got a situation!”

“Huhmmph...?” The younger Winchester stirs and stretches his arms out over his head as he wakes. He tries to blink away the headache that's grabbed his head in a vice. “Dean? What—holy—!” He sits up arrow-straight, throwing the blanket off of himself when he sees what his brother has dragged in. The befuddled and shocked expression on his face is almost priceless. “Is that a _body?_ Did you fucking _kill_ someone?”

“I didn't kill him, asswipe! He just showed up on the goddamned stoop outside; I've never seen 'im before in my life!” Dean presses the heel of his hand into his left eye, trying to stave off the beginnings of a major hangover-induced migraine. _Too. Fucking. Early. For this shit._ “I heard knocking from upstairs, and because you and Bluto over there were too fuckin' hammered to wake up and answer the door, I had to. And, well, I found him.” He gestures to the passed out man, who hasn't moved an inch, on the floor in front of them.

Sam doesn't respond verbally, but he nods in vague understanding and casts his hazel gaze over the prone form of the stranger. After a second, he points out, “His ankle's pretty badly sprained, it looks like.”

“I know,” Dean says. “He was leaning on his right foot at the door. And he had his arm wrapped around himself, like his ribs hurt or something.”

“Are they broken?”

“Dunno.” Dean leans over the mysterious visitor and hesitates a moment before gently pressing down on the left side of the man's torso.

“ _Augh!_ ” Instantly, the stranger's grey eyes shock open and his hand flies to the spot where Dean had just applied pressure. He clears his throat, blinking a few times, his eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling. His chest starts to heave, and he lets out a few hacking coughs.

Dean and Sam both jolt backwards at this sudden awakening. “Whoa, hey, dude, welcome back to the land of the living,” Dean says as a greeting.

The stranger sighs and closes his eyes once more. “This 'land of the living' is quite painful,” he grouses in his gravel-on-velvet baritone.

Dean snorts out a laugh at this response and Sam says, “Yeah, bruised ribs suck.” The younger man gets up off the couch and crouches down beside his brother. He reaches out to help the injured guest slowly sit up, and they both lean him against the couch cushions behind them.

The stranger looks confused. “Is that what hurts?” He peers down at himself curiously, as if trying to see through his filthy clothing to the undoubtedly bruised skin below. “It's...pulsing. And my ankle...” His left foot twitches as he tries to rotate it, but a bolt of pain stops him and he gasps, shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth. “Oh...”

“Hey, you're alright now,” Dean reassures him, leaning closer and daring to place a hand on the other man's shoulder. “We'll help you.”

Sam turns to him, incredulous. “We will?”

“ _Yes,_ ” his brother replies adamantly, meeting his gaze. “We're not savages, are we? We'll help this guy out, get him some medical attention. I think he's homeless.”

“You are correct in that assumption,” the stranger interjects with a soft grunt. He lifts his head to face Dean. “And you are very kind to—”

As soon as he meets Dean's eyes, however, the words die in his throat. He is transfixed. His jaw slackens and he stares intently at the countenance of the man before him, seemingly unable to look away. It's like he recognizes Dean from somewhere, even though Dean is pretty certain that he's never seen this guy before. Still, there's something strangely soothing about this man's presence that makes a part of him flutter with— _affection? Protectiveness?_ Dean's not quite sure. But the pair of ashy eyes boring into his own green ones are doing something to his cognitive abilities, like a good, strong shot of Cuervo. And he's surprised to find that he kinda likes it.

“Uh...you alright, man?” Dean asks after a long bout of eye contact.

The stranger just blinks once and gapes in apparent awe. After a long moment, he whispers breathily, “Hello, Dean.”

Sam looks at Dean, then at the filthy man, then back at Dean. Finally, he exclaims, “What the hell is going _on_ here?”

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Dean is _right there_ in front of him, warm and real and glorious. His eyes are just as Castiel remembers, as vibrant as a forest with summer sunlight permeating through its broad green foliage, and they're looking directly into his own for the second time. His voice is deep and tender, and his _scent—_ it's all Castiel can do to keep himself from lunging and burying his nose in Dean's neck to breathe him in.

This feeling in his newly-human heart is almost alarming in its intensity. Never before has he felt such a strong desire to touch, to feel, to embrace. All of this—pain, cold, fear—has been so dreadfully strange and difficult for him to comprehend in such a short amount of time; the sight of Dean's familiar eyes and mouth and freckled skin is extremely welcome. He'd been dreadfully anxious about having to wander around this town on his own, without a friend.

Raphael had told him he would be sent to Lawrence, Dean's town, when he was turned human. He hadn't said anything about landing outside Dean's very home. _Perhaps he_ is _more merciful than he lets on,_ Castiel considers. He hadn't dropped the Seraph into unfamiliar territory—he'd been downright _kind._ Certainly uncharacteristic of him.

But then Castiel remembers the other things Raphael had instructed, and his blind gratitude quickly fades away.

_“You must blend in seamlessly with the others. Nothing about you should be considered strange—not your conduct, your appearance, your speech. If anyone suspects that you are not what you say you are, they will pry, and you will be found out. In addition, you may not mention your mission for love to anyone, nor may you speak of your true species in any way. To further ensure the concealing of your identity, it will be made certain that you will not be recognized by anyone you may have seen before in your travels to and from this small town. I leave you with this warning, Angel of Thursday: the moment you betray yourself is the moment you return to Heaven, and the moment you join my ranks.”_

These terms had almost made Castiel second-guess his decision to Fall. But the thought of having free will, of having a chance at sharing his expansive heart with someone who could finally appreciate it, won out in the end.

After his final instructions, the Archangel had muttered something else under his breath, spread his electric wings, and Castiel had felt a ripping sensation deep in his own core. The next several seconds had consisted of darkness, pain, and starlight, and a sudden heaviness had settled into his body like a load of stone. He'd felt more solid, more substantial, even as his wings were dissipating and his Grace was being removed from his being. Celestial power had been seamlessly replaced with a human soul, and at once he had been changed—he is still uncertain, however, as to the extent of these changes. Something drastic must have taken place in order to make him unrecognizable to those who have come in contact with him in the past, like the patrons of the grocery store.

But he'd gone along with it anyway, accepting his fate for whatever it might turn out to be. And now here he is, on Earth, searching for a pure, boundless love, broken and battered in the presence of the very man he had meant to seek out as a point of constancy. Maybe this is where the friendship he'd so desperately wanted after that sunset will begin.

If only he could remember how to speak.

Dean's uncharacteristically timid voice snaps Castiel out of his daze. “How d'you know my name?” he queries, releasing the new human's shoulder and shrinking back a few feet. His right hand drops to his hip; Castiel is able to recognize from the different snippets of television shows he has glimpsed during his terran visits the handle of a handgun protruding from the waistband of the man's fabric pants.

The ex-angel feels as flustered and unsure as Dean sounds. He'd forgotten during the unexpected one-sided reunion that the green-eyed man would not remember who he is. Thinking quickly, he comes up with an alternative answer. “I, er...I-I heard him,” he gestures with a quaking hand to the shaggy-haired man at his left, “call you 'Dean' while I was still half-conscious. I happen to, um...know someone else who goes by that name, and I was...surprised. Is it truly your name as well?”

After several long moments of thought, Dean seems to buy into Castiel's answer. He nods his assent and moves his hand tentatively back to his lap. “Yeah, it is. And that's Sam—he's my brother."

Castiel turns to the larger man and dips his head respectfully in greeting. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hi.” There is confusion in Sam's eyes, but he still quirks his mouth up in a small smile and gives a short wave.

“What about you? Got a name?” Dean asks.

“Yes, I am—” The ex-angel pauses after this, deciding how truthful he should be. It is customary for most angels to have the sacred suffix “-iel”, meaning “of God,” added to the end of their name. As a Fallen angel, he has no real right to the title anymore. The human brothers would probably find his full name a bit peculiar-sounding, anyway. So he simplifies. “—Cas. My name is Cas.”

 _Cas._ Meaning simply “shield,” as opposed to _Castiel—_ “shield of God.” As an angel, it had been his job to protect his brothers and sisters and, in turn, his Father, and he'd been proud that his very name reflected that duty. Now, human and weak and vulnerable, his only purpose is to protect himself—keep his fragile body nourished and healthy, avoid injury, defend himself in the face of danger. He is, essentially, his own shield now. Considering these facts, Castiel decides that perhaps “Cas” is an appropriate name for his current form.

Dean smiles a little, clearly unaware of the significance of this name change. “Alright. Cas it is.”

Cas finds it in himself to smile back. The inexplicable thrill of hearing Dean's voice saying even that small portion of his true name doesn’t last long, unfortunately—as he lists forwards with exhaustion, the pain in his apparently bruised ribs spikes up to the forefront of his senses again. He gasps and wraps his right arm around himself as he had on the porch, doubling over.

Dean and Sam snap into action immediately. With a muttered “Shit,” Sam gets up and flees to another room in the small house while Dean scoots closer to Cas and cautiously reaches out to take hold of the bottom hem of the other man's dirty shirt. Meeting Cas's eyes almost shyly, Dean says, “I gotta see the damage. Couldya lift up your arm for me?”

Cas hesitates for a moment, a sudden, all-too-human desire to protect his modesty overtaking him. He knows that it is necessary for Dean to assess his injuries, however, so he does as he is asked and removes his arm from across his own torso. A strange heat floods into his face as Dean gently hikes up the T-shirt, revealing the mottled, purpling flesh underneath. The ex-Seraph's chest and sides are a symphony in bruises, the colors ranging from deep purple to a sickly yellow, and Dean grimaces at the sight.

“Yeah, that ain't healthy,” the elder brother says as his eyes scan over Cas's chest. He glances up, actual concern in his eyes now. “How'd you get hurt like this, Cas?”

“I...I Fell.” Cas figures that honesty is the best policy.

“Huh. Damn. You must've fallen pretty far to do all this.” Dean replaces the thin fabric of the shirt over the swollen skin.

“Yes, I suppose I did.” _If you only knew, dear one._

Sam returns with a large plastic box and a rag in one hand and a translucent orange container in the other. “I got the stuff,” he explains as he lays it all out beside his brother: inside the box there are several medical supplies, including items labeled “Sterile Gauze,” “Medical Tape,” and “Band-Aids.” Cas has seen most of them at the grocery store a number of times. Dean looks them over before selecting a thick roll of white gauze and a long strip of beige-colored fabric.

“Get 'im a glass of water for the meds,” he instructs and Sam is gone again in an instant. Dean turns his attention to Cas's injured ankle and studies it for several moments. As soon as he dares to jostle it at all, Cas's entire leg explodes with pain and he throws his head back against the couch, biting out another loud groan.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean apologizes and removes his questing fingers from the injury.

“Wh-What's wrong with it?” Cas asks, his voice trembling with pain and fear.

Dean blinks. “You can't tell?”

“I...I've never been injured to this extent before. This is all new to me.” It's only partially a lie—he has had injuries like these, but they've usually healed themselves within seconds of their infliction.

“Oh. That's gotta suck.” Sympathy comes over Dean's face at this new information. “Okay, let's see—your ankle's probably broken,” he explains in a calm voice, “or at the very least, sprained to hell. Same thing with your ribs. I'm gonna have to wrap your foot up to keep the bones and tendons stable—it'll hurt at first, but it'll feel better real quick, I promise. Sammy's getting you some water so you can take some drugs, and that'll help, too. Can't afford a hospital stay at the moment, so this is the best we can do for now.”

“Alright.” Cas manages to catch his breath after a few seconds and relaxes again. Gratitude rushes through him at the concern that Dean has for him, a man he has never met before. Tending to his wounds, soothing him, comforting him in his fear—this is all entirely unexpected. It's like they're friends already, though Cas knows enough about human culture to not assume this so early on in a relationship. If that's even what they have at this point. He sincerely hopes it is. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean just shrugs and takes the glass that his brother hands him when he returns. “Drink this,” he says, giving it to Cas, “and take two of these at the same time.” He picks up the orange bottle and pops it open.

Cas accepts the items but is still a little confused. He peers into the bottle and finds a handful of white morsels rattling around inside. Hoping he's following instructions correctly, he sticks one finger in the narrow opening and manages to get two of them in the palm of his hand. He stares at them, then looks back up at the brothers. “Now what do I do?”

Sam blinks a few times, incredulous. “Uh, you swallow them with the water. Haven't you ever taken a pill before?”

“Oh.” Aha, _pills!_ These are medicinal tablets, usually found in the “PHARMACEUTICALS” section of the grocery store, and they have the ability to relieve anything from pain and swelling to excess mucus production in the nostrils. Cas hopes that these are the pain-killing kind as he tips them into his mouth and takes a long sip of water to chase them down. He swallows with a gulp and a sigh, then quickly drains the glass before setting it down beside him. The quenching of thirst is a miraculous thing. “These tablets will work soon, I hope?” he asks.

“Yeah, in like twenty minutes,” Dean reassures him. “They'll make you pretty sleepy, too.”

At this, Cas feels a flare of panic spike in his chest. _Sleep?_ He'd forgotten all about that part of humanity. The thought of closing one's eyes and allowing one's body to shut down and paralyze itself for at least eight hours each night is unimaginable. And then _dreams_ happen on top of that—visions in one's sleep, twisted alterations of reality perceived as real when the mind and body are at rest. Despite their occasional divine usage, they're a truly terrifying concept to a new human.

“Hey, calm down!” Dean presses a hand against Cas's shoulder to rest him back against the couch again—Cas realizes with a start that his heart rate has accelerated and he can feel perspiration on the skin of his forehead and beneath his arms. “What, you don't like the drowsy drugs? Shoulda told us before you took 'em.”

Breathing deeply to slow his circulatory system down a little, Cas meets Dean's gaze. “N-No, I have just had difficulty sleeping for a...a very long time.”

The younger man actually smirks at this. “Well, you won't have any with those pills helping you out, that's for sure.”

“Very well. I trust you.”

“Um...okay.” Dean seems almost flustered at Cas's earnest declaration. Brushing it off, he unravels a substantial length of the gauze spool and tears. His careful hands roll up the muddied cuff of his patient's jeans, revealing the extent of the internal and external damage to his ankle. “Gotta clean up these scratches first. This might hurt.” He reaches over and grabs the white rag that Sam brought him, soaking it in liquid from a bottle he takes from the plastic box. He dabs it gently against the torn flesh of Cas's right foot, and Cas hisses through his teeth at the sting the contact causes.

“I know, I know,” Dean soothes and pauses, glancing up at him. “Just try to hold still, okay?” Cas nods rigidly, and the other man continues his treatment.

Both of Cas's feet are soon clean and disinfected, patched all over with adhesive bandages of varying sizes and shapes. Once this is finished, Dean begins wrapping the injured ankle tightly in gauze. It twinges a little when it shifts too much, but Cas manages to keep mostly quiet and Dean is an excellent medic, wrapping and tucking and folding the soft fabric just right and covering it securely in the elastic beige bandage afterwards. When he's finished, the ankle feels a lot less loose, and maybe it's the strange pills he's just taken, but Cas can't feel the pain so much anymore.

While he's doing this, Sam walks over to a nearby reclining chair that a bearded older man wearing an odd hat is sleeping in and shakes him awake. An influx of confused, drunken questions spews out of the man's mouth as he is ushered to a different room by Sam, who is doing his best to pacify him.

“Wha...? Who'zat? Why'zare a weirdo in my house, boy? He...he try'na steal shit? Kick 'im out, dammit! Where's my rifle—”

“Bobby, he's hurt and he's got nowhere to go. We're just fixing him up a little. He'll be gone soon, okay? C'mon, let's get you to bed.”

“Make sure to keep the weapons away from him!” Dean calls as they disappear around the corner, then turns his attention back to Cas. “You got anyone we can call for you? Family, friends, someone who could take you in?”

Cas shakes his head, a strange sadness settling in his heart. He thinks of Ezekiel, Anael, even Balthazar. “No. I have no one.” _Not here, at least. Even if I did, they would not come to my aid._ This thought leaves him with a hollow feeling somewhere behind his battered ribcage.

Something like pity mixed with empathy passes through Dean's photosynthetic eyes at this admission. His expression softens. “You've got us now,” he intones with a determined nod. “We'll help you.”

“For how long?” The question needs to be asked. Cas will not be able to fall into his first sleep without knowing its answer.

“For as long as you need us.” Dean almost seems surprised at his own words, but sticks by them nonetheless. “Me and Sam, we don't abandon people who need help.”

As much as this offer touches Cas, he can't help but wonder if staying here would be a good idea. He and Dean barely know each other; besides, he has two other people in this tiny house to take care of. It's nice to have seen a familiar face on the night of his transformation and relocation into an entirely new world, and forming a friendship would be even better, but remaining here, _living_ with Dean and his family? That is surely too much to ask. “I am not worth your time,” he insists, trying to keep the building despair he feels out of his voice. “I will only be a burden; besides, I...have work to do.”

“You're not a burden, Cas, really.”

“Yes I am. Thank you for the medical attention, truly, but that is all I could possibly ask of you.” The ex-angel tries to push himself to his feet but is held down by the pain in his torso and a pair of firm hands gripping his shoulders.

“And where are you gonna go, if this place is outta the question?” Dean asks.

Cas realizes he doesn't have an answer. His gaze falls from the other man's face to the dusty wood floor.

“Exactly.” Dean releases his grip. “You're staying here. You're in no condition to go anywhere by yourself anyway.”

Five seconds of intense inner turmoil later, Cas acquiesces. Relaxing against the couch, he lets out a deep sigh and wraps one arm loosely around his midsection again. “Very well. But only because your skills in persuasion are exceptional.” He offers a teasing smirk.

Dean returns it after a moment. “I've been told that before,” he says.

 _That almost seemed like “banter,”_ Cas thinks with a private sense of glee.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Carefully and with an almost uncharacteristic tenderness, Dean helps the injured grey-eyed man up from the floor and supports him with an arm around his waist as they make their way to the staircase. Ascending it turns out to be the most difficult part—he has to practically carry Cas most of the way up because of his bum ankle, and the huffing and puffing they both do puts a great strain on the shorter man's bruised ribs. By the time they actually make it to the top, they're both panting and Cas's face has paled considerably.

“I am alright,” he insists, but Dean still gets him a glass of cold water from the upstairs bathroom to drink before they go any further.

The elder Winchester debates in his mind whether or not to get this guy in the shower—he's rather fragrant, and not in the good way—but decides against it, seeing as he's got fresh bandages on his feet and can barely stand upright on his own. Dean goes into the bedroom and finds in the dresser a worn T-shirt, a pair of old boxers, and some flannel sweatpants that look a bit too small for him. Cas hobbles in after him with the aid of the wall and Dean leaves the clothes on the bed, instructing him to put them on as he exits to make up the couch downstairs for himself. He wouldn't make someone who's in as rough a shape as Cas sleep on that uncomfortable old piece of furniture, and he's way too tired to even think of driving to his cheap apartment across town, so the couch is where he'll be sleeping himself for the rest of the morning. He glances at a wall-mounted clock in the hallway—six a.m.—and makes a private vow to not get up before ten.

Once a pillow and blanket have been draped over the threadbare cushions of the old sofa, Dean heads back upstairs to check on their guest. He knocks softly on the bedroom door. “Heya, Cas, you doin' okay?”

“Yes, Dean, thank you,” is the muffled, somewhat strained reply.

Dean blinks. “You sure?”

A pause. “No, not entirely...I mentioned to you my difficulties with sleeping, did I not?”

“Yeah.”

“...Could you come in here for a moment?”

Dean enters the dark room, more than a little concerned. His big-brother instincts are kicking into overdrive in this particular situation, despite the fact that this man is probably more than five years older than him. He doesn't seem like it, though, with his wide, innocent eyes and his earnest voice. He's practically a child as Dean sees him now—dressed in a too-big ACDC T-shirt and snuggled in the bed with the covers gripped tightly in his fists; he looks like a frightened kid asking his parents to check his closet for monsters.

“What's up, man?” Dean asks quietly.

Cas hesitates, embarrassed. His voice wavers nervously when he finally speaks. “I was wondering if you could—if you wouldn't mind—st-staying in here, with me, tonight? I-I'm not used to this.”

What “this” is, Dean doesn't know, but the pleading tone in Cas's eyes and voice is enough to get him to agree. “Sure. 'Course. Just lemme go get my stuff from downstairs, okay?”

“Okay.”

He leaves the door open when he goes so light from the bathroom can flood in, and closes it again when he returns less than two minutes later. The pillow plops down on the floorboards a few feet from the right side of the bed and Dean's head follows it as he lies down, pulling his blanket up to his shoulders. The floor is cold and hard, but it's better than some of the places he's had to sleep over the years. “Y'alright now?” he mumbles, getting sleepier by the second.

“Yes. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean snorts out a laugh into his pillow. “'S like the fifth time you've said that t'me t'night.” His words are slurring more and more with each passing phrase.

There's a quick, breathy yawn from up above him. “You've deserved it each time, I assure you.”

Dean's eyes flicker shut and a strange feeling washes over him. “Why do I feel like I know you already?” he asks softly. It's spoken without filtration, without a second thought.

Both the question and the lack of response are forgotten the instant sleep's vaporous arms scoop him up.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! thanks so much for reading :) part III coming next Friday!


	4. Part III

_Games that never amount_

_To more than they’re meant_

_Will play themselves out…_

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

It takes three hours for Cas to discover that sleeping is a stressful, virtually impossible practice.

He tries desperately to get his mind to shut down long enough for him to drift into the sweet abyss, but to no avail. Every time he feels his limbs going numb and unresponsive, he jolts back to alertness in a panic, his heart racing, a cold sweat beading on his forehead and slicking his back. Once he realizes the futility of his attempts, he lies in the bed motionless, alternating between staring at the shadows on the ceiling and glancing out the window in the far wall to watch the sun rise. Its ascent is not as beautiful as its descent, but it's a close second—lighter, more airy colors paint the atmosphere this time, shades of light blue and purple mingling perfectly with citrus orange. Despite his exhaustion and the pain in his torso, Cas sits up against the headboard to see the spectacle better.

Thinking is easier when you're lying in a bed, he discovers, though he can't pinpoint the exact reason. The warmth, perhaps? The security of having thick blankets cocooning you, shielding you from the rest of the world? Whatever it is, it's a dramatic change from standing upright. Several thoughts crowd themselves into Cas's mind as he lies there in the silence, and he tries to sort through them all somewhat methodically.

First is the issue of how he is going to adapt to being a human “seamlessly” enough to meet Raphael's expectations. Cas has spent many days observing humans and learning their customs and behaviors—daily dental care, scheduled meals, driving automobiles, spending money, defecating. It's all so complex, and even a bit daunting now that he is looking it in the face. He has to do all of those things himself in order to survive his month here, and he's not entirely sure he will be able to. Even the slightest hint that he is not of this world will get him sent back to fight in Raphael's Rebel army, and the very thought sickens him. He must avoid that fate at all costs.

But the only way he will be able to, apparently, is if he can fulfill his “mission” here on Earth: find love. Cas knows that Raphael was talking about more than a simple kind word or deed—Cas needs to find a life partner. A mate, as it were. Someone who loves him with more than a friendly love—perhaps even in a sexual manner. He needs someone whose love could “rival his own” for humanity, and that is not a simple love at all. It's a sacrificial love, a burning love, an all-consuming, no-hesitation, risk-it-all type of love. It's that love that kept him coming back to Earth despite the consequences he had known would befall him, the love that had made him marvel at the smallest actions humans perform. It was almost the love that God had felt for His creation—the love he _still_ feels, Cas reminds himself adamantly—a love that is wholesome and divine and carnal and unconditional and _real_ like nothing else anyone could imagine. Love is what Christ had preached about the most, what the letters of Paul and John had spoken of in the deepest detail. It does not anger, it does not boast, it is not proud. It never fails and never ceases, and it is the most important thing that God ever brought into existence. The thought of having that kind of love directed at him is almost too much for Cas to hope for.

Is there someone here in Lawrence who can fulfill all those requirements of love, or will he have to traverse somewhere else to find them? If he does, will he go alone? How could he survive by himself, as injured and new to mortality as he is? Cas presses his throbbing head back against the pillows and sighs, following with his eyes the shadows flitting across the walls once again.

Perhaps Dean would go with him. Cas grins at this thought, remembering the almost familiar way they had conversed the night before. Smirks and quiet laughs had sprung from Dean's lips, prompted by Cas's words or actions, and the knowledge that he had been the one to cause someone such joy makes the ex-angel's body flood with a pleasant warmth. The pain in his torso and ankle dissipates at the thought of Dean's smile, and Cas reflects over how fortunate he is to have started his non-angelic journey here, with such a kindhearted man taking care of him.

Cas had seen Dean's soul on that night in the field—it was bright and pure, full of such tenderness and empathy that it was nearly bursting out of him. An element of heavy sadness had lingered within it also, discoloring its glow but doing nothing to detract from its inherent beauty. Cas wishes he could still see it, to be honest, but by experiencing for himself last night the gentle care that that soul was capable of, it had indeed manifested before him despite its invisibility.

So the answer he comes up with for his question is yes—if he asked, Dean would probably go with him to seek out a lover. His company would be both comforting and reassuring; their friendship would no doubt blossom effortlessly throughout the tryst, as well.

The ex-Seraph also decides then and there that remaining with Dean and his family is a necessity. They have already taken him in, after all; what sense is there in searching for another place to stay? Dean himself had said that Cas could remain here for as long as he needs to.

What harm could it do?

He is startled out of his delightful reverie by the awful sounds that Dean has begun to make in his sleep: snorts and coughs and obnoxious rattles erupt from the back of the man's throat, filling the tranquil morning air with noise and making Cas consider smothering him with something. Despite his affection towards Dean, Cas is slowly losing his patience and sanity. He's never heard such a racket in his life—dying angels are quieter than this, and they explode.

For the first time since Falling, Cas sincerely wishes for his smiting powers back. Despite Dean's positive traits, it would seem that he has one large, inexcusably loud negative one that is impossible to ignore. Cas tiredly rolls over and fixes the sleeping form on the floor with what he hopes is a withering glare. “You are fortunate, _boy,_ ” he mutters darkly, narrowing his eyes, “that I am fond of you.”

A whine and a loud slurp are the only responses he gets.

After two hours of half-dozing and suffering through Dean's morning chorus, Cas finally gives up and tries to pull himself out of bed. Every movement he makes results in a throb of pain from somewhere on his body, and he can't suppress the quick cries and groans he lets out as he jostles his ribs. His ankle feels surprisingly good, thanks to Dean's ministrations from last night, but the instant he tries to put weight on it, it starts to ache in warning.

He stands up, takes three halting steps, and promptly collapses to the floor with an undignified “ _Oof!_ ”

Immediately, Dean jolts awake. He startles into consciousness with a snuffle and a curious grunt, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he clumsily props himself up on one elbow. “Wha...Cas?” he calls, casting his sluggish gaze around the room.

“Over here,” Cas grouses from between gritted teeth. He tries to shift onto his right side, where his ribs hurt the least, but ends up remaining on his stomach when the effort proves too much for him. _If this is how humans begin each day, I can see why most of them do not like mornings._

“On the floor?” Dean scrambles quickly from his impromptu bedding and hurries to Cas's side. “Shit, man, you hurt?” His calloused hands grab Cas by the biceps and pull him upright until the ex-Seraph is leaning on him heavily, a re-creation of last night's—or, rather, this morning's—trip up the stairs.

“I tried to walk on my own,” Cas explains sheepishly. He shrugs and pointedly stares at his unwrapped, scratched-up foot. “It didn't work.”

The corner of Dean's mouth quirks up in a brief grin. “I got that, yeah. You hurt?” He looks Cas over, assessing him; not for the first time, Cas feels something flutter inside him as that green gaze rakes up and down his figure with such focus. The sensation is disconcerting, but not unwelcome.

“No, I do not think I have gained any additional injuries,” he replies finally.

“Where were you headed?”

“To someplace silent.” The new human glances back up and meets Dean's gaze. “You make quite a lot of noise when you sleep.”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Dean's face splits in a wide, tooth-filled smile and he laughs, the sound rumbling out of him from somewhere deep in his chest. “I know I snore a little. Sorry, shoulda warned you before you agreed to be my roommate.”

Cas memorizes the sight and sound of Dean's mirth, hoping that his human memory is at least minimally photographic. “That would have been ideal, yes. I was nearly prepared to press a pillow over your face to obtain some quiet.”

“Next time, just go ahead.”

Both of them laugh at that, gazes locked, lips peeled back in joyous grins. _He's smiling at me,_ Cas thinks, _really_ at _me._ And they're standing so close together and Dean is _warm,_ like a miniature star, and it's fantastic. Angels have not regularly engaged in much physical contact apart from brutally slaughtering each other for eons, so having a non-bloodthirsty creature this close to him is a pleasant change for Cas. He soaks it in as though it were a life force.

This contact lasts for several long seconds uninterrupted, until something unfamiliar flickers across Dean's features and the unbridled joy drains out of them in a single heartbeat. He moves away from Cas, just far enough so that their sides are no longer brushing but he can still support the invalided man with a stiff arm around the waist. Cas tries very hard to ignore the disappointment he feels at this sudden, drastic change as his laughter sputters to a halt.

An awkward silence falls, remaining until Dean clears his throat loudly. “'Mkay, time for breakfast,” he mumbles, avoiding Cas's eyes. “You hungry?”

Still a bit confused by Dean's seemingly bipolar moods, Cas blinks a few times and considers this question. The human sensation of hunger is one he has not yet experienced; if it's anything like thirst, he is not entirely eager to experience it anyway. This dependence on regular outside nourishment is one thing he hates about mortality, but something that he believes he could grow accustomed to. If only he knew what it felt like—

All at once, he does. A contraction in the region of his stomach precedes an odd gurgling noise, and Cas suddenly feels incredibly empty. He can't help but pitch forwards a little and wrap his free arm around his middle, gasping quietly at the discomfort. “Wh—What—?”

“I'll take that at a yes,” Dean says, his face carefully schooled into an expression of passiveness. “You should be starving—if it weren't for the bruises, I'd be able to count your freaking ribs.” He gives Cas a gentle nudge towards the doorway. “C'mon, let's get some gas in your tank, huh?”

Each step is a challenge, but Cas meets it with typical angelic perseverance and grit. Not a sound escapes from his pursed lips as he makes his way to the staircase with Dean's steadfast support. He glances over at the younger man a few times, trying to make eye contact again, but finds him staring straight ahead, no evidence remaining of the laughing, carefree man that Cas had seen not ten minutes ago. It is decidedly baffling.

Cas remembers the night in the field, watching the sunset, and the words Dean had spoken to himself when he'd thought no one could hear: _“That's why you stay alive.”_ Anyone that has to remind themselves of their reasons for living must be troubled—Cas knows this from experience.

Perhaps camaraderie with this man will be more difficult than he had first imagined.

At long last, they make it downstairs. The bearded man—Bobby, Cas remembers—can be heard snoring from another room, and Sam is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he is sleeping somewhere else, as well? “Dean, where is your brother?” Cas asks out of curiosity.

“Hmm? Oh, I dunno, probably sobered up after a nap and drove back to his condo across town,” Dean replies nonchalantly as he helps Cas towards the room that appears to be the kitchen. “He doesn't stick around much. It's usually just me and Bobby here. I got my own apartment, too, but I like it here better. Bigger, friendlier, and more alcoholic.”

Sure enough, they find a scrawled note from Sam on the refrigerator telling them that he'd gone home and that he's getting ready for the newest hunting season, which he'll be participating in, that starts in a week. Dean skims over the spindly handwriting, smirks a little, and crumples the small paper up in his fist. “What're ya hungry for?” he asks Cas as he tosses the trash into a bin beside the doorway.

Cas edges himself slowly into a wooden chair beside a small dining table. “Uhm...what do you have available?”

“Let's see.” Dean turns and opens the first set of cabinets above his head. “We got...Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, and oatmeal up here.” The doors close and he looks over the counter. “And there's some fruit down here. You can pick whatever you want.”

_Whatever I want. Free will, how I love you so._

Since he has absolutely no point of reference, Cas decides to try out the Cheerios dry cereal, which he has seen in the grocery store and has a pleasant-sounding name. Perhaps it makes those who eat it cheerful—if that's the case, he'll eat twenty bowls full. Disappointingly, it turns out to not have much of an effect on his mood, but it makes the alarming rumbling in his stomach cease and the flavor is stupendous, especially after Dean suggests adding milk.

Once he's had two bowls of cereal and a banana, Cas is pleasantly satisfied with his first human meal. He sits back in his chair and dabs at his mouth with the paper towel Dean had provided him earlier. “That was marvelous, Dean, thank you,” he says earnestly.

Dean glances over his shoulder from the sink, where he's washing some dirty plates and silverware. His brow furrows in confusion. “Dude, you don't gotta thank me or anything,” he insists kindly. “It's just breakfast.”

“Yes, but...” Cas wonders how to word this next statement properly. “...I don't have a home, as you deduced last night, and that was the first meal I've had in quite some time. You helped prepare it, therefore you deserve my thanks.”

Their eyes meet then. There's something almost guarded in Dean's crystalline green orbs, a barrier just beneath their surface that prevents Cas from looking into them too deeply. Dean seems well-and-truly baffled by this expression of gratitude, and his freckled cheeks turn a light shade of pink. He shrugs modestly and drops his gaze back to his task at the sink. “'S just pouring cereal and shit, but, uh...you're welcome, I guess.”

Cas smiles in response, but concern still tugs at the back of his mind. “It was more than that to me.”

This warrants yet another glance from Dean. The younger man's face is now wearing an almost pained expression, confusing Cas even further. Why is it so difficult for this man to accept gratitude?

Five seconds of awkward eye contact later, Dean clears his throat again and continues washing the soiled cutlery in his hands. “Whatever you say, man,” he grates out. After a pause, he queries as a not-so-subtle means of changing the subject, “So, Cas, where ya from? Got any family anywhere? I know you said you had 'no one' last night, but frankly I don't buy that for a second. Everybody's got somebody, right?”

Despite his upbeat tone, Dean doesn't appear to believe that statement himself.

Cas shrugs at the question, glancing down at the table and fidgeting with the edge of the placemat beneath his cereal bowl. How truthful should he be? “I am...from far away,” he finally says, hoping he's  being vague enough, “and my family is...rather large. Very religiously devout. They do not like me very much, though.”

Dean looks up from his chore at this. “What? Why?”

“Because I am different than them,” the ex-angel admits. He shrugs again, smiling self-deprecatingly. “I do not see the world the way they do, nor do I believe some of the things they believe. That is why I no longer have a home with them—I was 'evicted,' in a sense.”

“Assholes.”

Cas's head snaps up. “Pardon me?” These are _angels_ Dean is insulting, whether he knows it or not, and they should be respected.

“They're assholes,” Dean reiterates. He puts down a clean spoon and picks up a plate, scrubbing it deliberately with a blue sponge. “Anyone who abandons someone else because they don't measure up to some bullshit standard ain't worth your time. If they were really your family, they'd've never kicked you out in the first place.” He glances over at Cas meaningfully. “You're better off without them, buddy, trust me.”

Better off without them. Better off without the brothers and sisters he has had surrounding him for the past three thousand years; better off without the omnipotent Father who created him and left him like a compass without a needle to find his way alone. They may not have treated Cas ideally, but they've been all he's had for his entire existence.

And here he is now, on Earth, after leaving them because of a selfish desire to have the ability to pick which cereal he'd rather eat for breakfast. Despite what he wants to believe about his decision, he's more alone now than he's ever been before.

“How can you be so sure?” Cas asks quietly, waves of uncertainty and regret overwhelming him all at once. The fabric placemat in his grip starts to fray at the edges, and he tugs at the stray strands with a nervous energy crackling at his fingertips.

“Because I know what it's like to feel hated by the people who share your blood.”

There's a story there, lurking beneath the surface of Dean's passive expression. Cas has to know what it is. The idea of Dean hurting like that makes his half-full stomach turn uncomfortably. “Will you tell me why?” he asks gently.

Dean scoffs. “Nah, it's a pretty long story. Full of heartbreak and tears and all that tragic back-story shit that gets turned into animated kids' movies.”

“I don't mind those movies,” Cas lies for the sake of his argument.

The plate plops into the sudsy water and is replaced by a bowl. Dean's hands have started to shake minutely; he grips the sponge tighter to stabilize them. “You'd mind this one. Not exactly G-rated.”

“Dean.” Cas struggles to his feet and hobbles across the small kitchen until he is standing behind the man at the sink. He gingerly raises a hand and rests it between Dean's shoulder blades. He blinks sympathetically, even though Dean can't see him.

At the light touch, Dean drops the bowl and whirls around, and Cas backs up a few paces. A dull rage smoulders in Dean's eyes. “Whaddya want, man?” he demands, throwing his hands in the air. His freckles become more pronounced as his face reddens. “I mean, you just met me and now you wanna hear my friggin' life story? You wanna hear about how broken I was by the time I was ten years old? Huh? What, you some kind of homeless shrink, sniffin' around for clients?”

“No, I just—”

“Look, pal.” The anger lessens to a simmer beneath Dean's skin, but does not disappear, and he lowers his voice. An earnest expression forms on his face as he tries to explain himself. “I don't got many friends, okay? Actually, I've maybe got two, counting Sam. And he's the only one who knows about all the shit that happened to me, because he was there to see it. I've never told anyone, because I don't _do_ that. I'm not fucking Share Bear.”

Remorse floods Cas's chest and he looks down at his bruised feet on the cracked linoleum floor. “I understand,” he murmurs, feeling completely terrible for driving Dean to such strong negative emotion. Their potential friendship appears to have been snuffed out before it even had the chance to spark. “I am sorry. Forgive me, I...had no idea that it was such a sensitive subject.” _I just wanted to hear more about how not-alone I am._

“Maybe you should consider that next time,” Dean spits, steel in his voice. He turns his back to Cas, continuing with his dish washing.

The embarrassment Cas feels threatens to drown him. “I will not mention it again,” he promises quietly. He turns and makes his way haltingly out of the kitchen, heading to the staircase he knows he will not be able to climb on his own. Perhaps he should just leave the house altogether—he has clothes on his body and he's been recently nourished; he should last almost a day on his own before needing to seek refuge again.

 _It was a mistake to ask to be sent here. Raphael must have known that. So much for being “merciful.”_ Once more feeling guilty about inconveniencing a man he had wanted to befriend, Cas re-routes and heads for the front door.

He's halfway through the scarcely-furnished living room when he hears, “Hey.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Cas is somewhat surprised to find Dean trotting up behind him. The younger man stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you like that,” he says. His words are gruff but sincere, all traces of his fury gone

“It's fine. I deserved—”

“No, you really didn't.” Dean shakes his head and shrugs one shoulder. “Like I said, you just met me. You had no way of knowing what's off-limits as far as conversation topics. Besides, I can tell you don't have much practice talking to people.”

Cas can't help but grin. “I don't,” he admits.

“Yeah. So don't feel bad, okay?”

“...Alright.” Cas pauses, still a little uncertain. “Does this mean I can stay here?”

Dean's brow furrows. “You didn't think I was gonna kick you out, did you?” he asks incredulously. When Cas doesn’t answer, he shifts his stance to re-establish eye contact. “I'm not gonna force a guy with a broken ankle and no home out into this crap-shoot of a world alone.”

“You were angry with me, though. I thought—”

“Dude, I go off on stupid tangents all the time,” Dean insists. “I've got a temper, sure, but I ain't heartless. Of course you can stay.”

Cas looks up at him, something like awe blooming in his young soul at Dean's kindness towards him. It's undeserved and unwarranted, and yet he still insists on giving it. What a marvel this man is.

Dean notices the staring and shifts uncomfortably under the weight of the other man's gaze after about five seconds. “Uh, Cas?” he asks, releasing a short, nervous laugh.

Cas snaps himself out of his trance and looks down at the ratty carpet. “My apologies.”

“'S fine,” Dean says easily, “but you should also know that I, uh, don't do staring, either.”

“Of course. I will honor that in the future, I assure you.”

“...Right.” A pause. “Hey, you're ready to go back upstairs, right?”

“Yes,” Cas replies after working up the courage to meet Dean's gaze again.

“Good. You should probably shower then—no offense, but you're kinda...pungent.”

Dean helps Cas back up the stairs and fishes out from his own dresser some worn-out clothes—a pair of dark jeans and a Zeppelin tee he'd forgotten he owned—for him to wear. He sets them on the toilet lid, peels off the band-aids littering Cas's right foot, and helps Cas tie a plastic trash bag around the makeshift cast on his left, “so it won't get wet, idiot,” he explains with a hint of affection when Cas asks. Once this is finished, he leaves Cas in the bathroom, shutting the warped wooden door behind himself as he exits. “Don't touch the bottle of conditioner in there, though,” he calls from the hallway before leaving entirely. “That's Sam's for when he stays over, and he's pretty possessive of it.” His footsteps echo off the walls as he heads back into his bedroom.

All at once, Cas is alone again.

Taking a deep breath, the ex-Seraph gets up from the stool he'd been sitting on and starts to take off his night clothes. He has seen the different shower soaps that humans use—with odd names like “shampoo” and “exfoliating scrub”—on shelves at the grocery store, and he thinks he knows which one goes in hair and which doesn’t. He's almost excited—his first shower is certainly a milestone.

As he removes his shirt, he catches a whiff of his own scent and is surprised that he didn’t knock Dean unconscious when they were standing next to each other. “Pungent” doesn't even begin to sufficiently describe the odor emanating from his every pore. _I must apologize to him later,_ Cas thinks, wrinkling his nose.

Once he's stripped, apart from the bag around his foot, Cas stands in the middle of the small room and looks down at himself, shivering slightly. He'd been too lethargic last night to take the time to observe his own naked body, so this is the first time he's really seen it—angels don't have a reason to ever divest themselves of clothing, so this experience is almost as noteworthy as his first meal.

As an angel, he had been able to see within humans in more than one way—not only had their souls been visible to him, but the inner workings of their body had been, as well. He knows by heart each bone, tendon, and muscle that makes up these mortal coils, and each and every one of them is beautiful and important in its own way, as Father had intended it to be. Cas had had bones and a heart when he was a Celestial, but the rest of his “muscles” had been composed of Grace, not tissue. The fact that he now possesses such an intricate and fragile part of creation for himself is both humbling and awe-inspiring.

Carefully, Cas runs his hands across his own strong, well-sculpted chest, then down to his stomach, feeling his abdominal muscles jump under the feather-light touch of his fingertips. His unbruised skin is pale, but not translucent, and his entire body is dusted with dark hair, more sparse on his torso than it is on his arms and legs. There's also a thick thatch below his navel, surrounding the one part of his anatomy that he's truly never thought about. He feels a flush rise into his cheeks and watches with fascination as his chest tints pink, as well.

Hesitantly, he reaches down with one hand and brushes his palm over his genitals. The sensation this action produces is an oddly pleasurable tingle; his chest darkens and the flesh beneath his hand gives a strong twitch.

A gasp punches out of him and his hand flies back, gripping the sink counter behind him. _That is...interesting._ He'd known that humans derive pleasure from the stimulation of this area of their bodies, but he's never had a taste of it before. It's warm and throbbing and _good,_ and he finds himself wanting more.

Unfortunately, Cas has no time to further examine this newfound element of his humanity because his stench is beginning to permeate every molecule of air surrounding him. He turns to the sink, grabs the bar of soap that Dean had pointed out to him, and spares a quick glance in the wall-mounted mirror.

The soap drops like a dead weight onto the tile floor as Cas takes in his reflection.

It's not the way his hair is more unruly than he's ever seen it; it's not the stubble that's started to poke through his skin along his jawline and chin; it's not even the dark circles beneath his eyes that make him stiffen with shock. It's the _color_ of those eyes.

Gone are the unique, vibrant sapphire irises that he had been blessed (cursed?) with so long ago—in their place are a pair of grey, almost silver ones, as ashy and cloud-ridden as the autumn sky outside. They don't even look like they belong to him at all. They're too one-dimensional, too non-expressive, and they're far too uncommon here on Earth to go unnoticed. Cas has never seen a grey-eyed human before, nor does he think he ever will. How is he supposed to “blend in” when he, once again, looks completely different than the rest of the beings around him?

Cas runs his fingertips just under his right eye, leaning as close to the mirror as he can without touching his nose to it. Of all the side-effects of losing his Grace, this fundamental change in his appearance is probably his least favorite one.

 _But I have to go on,_ he thinks, and tries to be optimistic. Perhaps someone will find them intriguing and strike up a conversation with him because of them. Perhaps the humans will not be as judgmental as his brethren in Heaven had been. Perhaps someone will even _like_ them.

_After all, Dean does not seem to mind them._

With this thought comforting him, Cas leans down and retrieves the soap from the floor. He steps into the porcelain basin beneath the shower spout and draws the white waterproof curtain, cutting himself off from the rest of the room. The chrome lever that starts the water flowing creaks as he turns it, and he hisses as the cold liquid hits the bare skin of his shoulders. It warms up after about twenty seconds, though, and he sighs happily at the sensation. He fills the palm of his hand with a clear gel from a black bottle and, hoping desperately that he's correct in doing so, begins to lather it through his greasy hair.

He only notices after he's rinsed the fragrant bubbles away that that bottle is explicitly labeled “Body Wash.” With a hopeless grunt of frustration, he rests his forehead on the damp wall and vows to read labels more thoroughly.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Dean closes his bedroom door behind himself and rests his forehead against the peeling paint with a hopeless grunt of frustration.

What is _wrong_ with him today? Everything had been just fine and dandy the day before—at least, once he'd checked himself out of that hospital—and then this weird, hurt, grey-eyed, socially-inept hobo had shown up on their fucking stoop and managed to send his brain into a proverbial tailspin. One pathetic, lost look and suddenly Dean's _sleeping on the floor to keep him company?_ Something's just not right with that picture, big-brother instincts or not. He doesn't even know what it is about the guy that makes him so...so damn...Dean can't even put a word to it.

All he knows is that the pang of _something_ he'd felt after yelling at Cas in the kitchen was enough to make him regret ever raising his voice at all. The hurt in those stormy eyes, on that innocent face...it was almost as bad as Sam's kicked-puppy look when they were kids. And it hadn't even been that big of a deal, his wanting to know Dean's history a little—after all, Dean had asked those same types of questions minutes before his little outburst. God, he'd felt terrible the instant he'd heard those shuffling footsteps walking away. He still feels sorta like shit about it, if he's honest with himself.

But _why?_ Why is he suddenly so concerned about this stranger he's known for less than twelve hours? He's lending him clothes; making him breakfast—yes, cereal does count; he's fucking _prepping_ him for fucking _showers_. He never even did that for Sammy. What the _hell?_

“'S not your fault,” Dean mumbles to himself against the door, clenching his fist at his side. “He needs someone, and he happened to end up here. You take care of people, he needs taking care of, end of story. That's all it is.”

But that doesn’t explain everything. It doesn't explain the freaky connection Dean feels to the other man; doesn't explain why he has this intense, all-consuming desire to make him happy and keep him that way. He doesn’t let just anyone sleep in his bed, after all, even if it's just the bed he borrows from Bobby. And the only other person he's ever slept on the floor for is—of course—Sam. His baby brother, the kid he'd raised practically on his own. What right does Cas The Awkward Stranger have to be ranked up with Sam The Precious Brother on top of Dean's mental “List of People I Must Look Out For”?

And why doesn't Dean really want to take Cas off that list?

The elder Winchester is startled out of this brief interlude by a gruff, sleep-roughened voice yelling from downstairs, “Dean? You still here?”

“Yeah, Bobby, just gimme a sec.” Dean puts on a pair of jeans and buttons a flannel over the T-shirt he'd slept in before leaving his bedroom to greet his surrogate father.

The older man is lounging in the same chair he'd fallen asleep in last night, baseball cap still firmly affixed to his head, rubbing his temples and squinting his eyes shut. “Hangover?” Dean asks with a teasing smirk in his voice as he approaches.

“Fuck off” is the eloquent response. Bobby groans softly and punches the armrest. “I was celebratin' your incredible defeat of death, and this is what I get.”

“Getting drunk is getting drunk,” Dean points out, plopping down on the couch across from him. “Don't matter why it happens, the morning after always sucks ass. Kinda like a one-night stand.”

“Them's the truth,” Bobby admits, giving the bridge of his nose one last pinch. “You'd think I'd be used to it by now.” He sighs and looks up at the younger man, blinking a couple times to focus his vision. “Wouldja be a right _peach_ and go fix this old timer some breakfast so he don't have to get up and fall over?”

“It's like eleven-thirty, so I'll call it 'brunch',” Dean says and heads to the kitchen. He fills up a freshly-cleaned bowl with Raisin Bran—Bobby's ironic favorite—then brings it back to the living room with a spoon and a glass of milk. As an afterthought, he grabs an antacid tablet from a cabinet and places it on the coffee table beside the bowl. Bobby sends him a grateful glance and pops it in his mouth, letting it dissolve mostly before chasing it down with a gulp of milk.

The small talk they throw back and forth is the usual—how's “things,” has Dean found a better apartment yet, where's Sam hunting this week, will Dean be joining him. They both know all the answers before they're spoken, but it's familiar and comforting to talk to each other nonetheless. Dean could use a little grounding after the hectic night-slash-morning he's had. He brews a fresh pot of coffee and pours Bobby a mug full once “brunch” is finished, then takes the dirty dishes back to the kitchen and sets them in the sink.

Halfway through his second mug, Bobby finally asks the question that Dean has been fully expecting for the past hour.

“So, I don't remember much from last night,” he begins mildly, “but I do seem to recall some filthy homeless bum passed out on my floor.” He sets his mug down and leans back in his chair, an open, inquiring expression schooling his features. “And I hear the shower going upstairs, and there's no one else here, so I gotta assume that that guy stayed the night. Am I right?”

An odd indignation surges through Dean at the description “filthy homeless bum,” but he shakes it off. “Yeah, he, uh, he slept upstairs in my bed,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. When he realizes what he just implied and sees the older man's arched eyebrow, he instantly adds, “Alone! He slept _alone_ in my bed because I wasn’t gonna make him sleep on the couch—he's got bruised ribs and a really badly fractured ankle, might even be broken; wanted him to be as comfortable as possible.”

“Well aren't you a saint,” Bobby grouses. He crosses his arms across his barrel chest and shakes his head at Dean in disdain. “Takin' strangers into a house that ain't even yours, without even checking if they got a criminal record first—he's probably stolen half my artifacts by now—”

“No, Bobby.” This time, Dean is quick to jump to Cas's defense. He scoots forward to the edge of the couch as he speaks. “He's good, trust me. I've been with him practically every minute since he got here, and he's pretty much a twelve-year-old brain in a forty-year-old body.” _Despite the fact that he talks like an 1890s author._ “He's just got this weird innocence—I don't think he'd slap a mosquito if it sucked him dry.”

The older man narrows his eyes and studies Dean's face closely, seemingly looking for signs of dishonesty. He must be satisfied with what he finds because he soon relaxes with a discontented-but-not-disapproving sigh. “Whatever you say,” he acquiesces, reaching for his coffee again. “How long's he gonna be staying here, do ya think?”

“No idea. He's homeless and he can barely walk on his own, not to mention the fact that he's pretty damn malnourished and dehydrated, judging from the way he wolfed down his Cheerios and water this morning. I think we should let him hole up here 'til he can at least function on his own, then maybe hook him up with a cheap apartment somewhere, find him a job—hell, I'll teach him a thing or two about motors and he can work here if he wants.”

Bobby is dumbfounded. The coffee mug is frozen halfway to his mouth and his light blue eyes are open wide, an obvious sign of his shock at this response. Slowly, he sets his drink down and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and looking his adopted son in the face. “Lemme get this straight,” he begins slowly. “You've known this guy for, what, ten minutes, and already you're mapping out his fuckin' retirement plan?”

Dean shrugs, not really seeing the problem. “I dunno, I mean, he told me that he's got no one and nowhere to go to,” he explains. “He's kinda lost, and I already wrapped up his ankle and fed him, so he trusts me—least, I hope he does. There's just something about him...he's like a kid who wandered off at a carnival, scared and alone and tryin' to figure out what to do. He needs help, Bobby. He needs us.”

Bobby's expression softens at this. It takes a moment, but he eventually nods in understanding and sits back. Something like pride shines in his eyes. “Son, you're somethin' else, you know that?” he says softly, fondly. “How did an asshole of a man like your father raise such a good kid, huh?”

Modestly, Dean's gaze drops to his hands in his lap. The tips of his ears go hot under the heartfelt praise. “You had more of an influence on me than he did,” he says after a second or two of composing himself.

“Bullshit,” Bobby mutters, but Dean knows that's his way of accepting a compliment.

Their conversation changes course after this, and honestly, Dean's taken aback by Bobby's readiness in accepting the fact that he'll have a boarder for the foreseeable future. He'd thought for sure he'd have to make a more convincing argument than the one he'd just given, but apparently that hadn't been necessary. _Maybe the old coot still has a heart in him after all,_ Dean thinks with a private smile.

He hopes Bobby doesn't mind that Dean will most likely be staying here more often, as well, to look after Cas himself—till the grey-eyed man can walk up the stairs on his own, at least. He blames it once again on his too-strong big-brother instincts.

Not much later, the sound of water flowing through rusty, duct-tape-wrapped pipes ceases. Dean registers this environmental change in the back of his mind, not really thinking about it too much, until it's followed by a loud _thud_ and a pained yelp.

“Cas?” Dean immediately calls, rocketing off the couch and rushing to the base of the stairs.

“Dean, I'm sure he's fine,” Bobby insists, but he's cut off by Dean shushing him.

A heartbeat passes, then two, then a strained, deep voice rumbles from the bathroom, “I may need— _ah_ —some assistance.”

Dean shoots an apologetic glance over his shoulder, but Bobby nods at him as if to say, _It's what you've gotta do, go do it._ He thanks the older man with a quick grin and is answered in a similar manner.

Dean takes the stairs three at a time as he ascends to the second floor, a man on a mission. Without knocking, he barges into the bathroom and is greeted by the sight of Cas sprawled on the bottom of the tub, a towel pulled over the lower half of his glistening body, clutching his ribcage, his face pinched in pain.

Dean crouches down and tries to help him sit up—luckily, the water's already turned off. “What happened?” he asks, eyes wide and heart pounding from stress and physical exertion.

“I-I slipped,” Cas replies sheepishly. His non-bagged foot squeaks against the porcelain as he pushes himself into a half-sitting, half-slouching position against the wall. “It's hard to balance on such a frictionless surface with only one properly-functioning ankle.” He shifts his position slightly and winces, eyes closing and blunt fingernails digging into the bruised skin of his torso. “I believe I've aggravated my injuries somewhat.”

“No kidding,” Dean agrees. Carefully, he helps Cas onto his knees, making sure to secure the towel around his waist before trying to get him to stand. “D'you think you can balance alright?”

Cas nods determinedly and shakes off Dean's supportive hands. Breathing deeply, he braces himself against the wall with one arm and keeps the other firmly wrapped around himself. Chest heaving, he straightens and stands unaided, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he concentrates.

During these ten or so seconds, Dean's eyes start to wander. There's no way he would've guessed that Cas was this, well, _ripped_ beneath the borrowed, ill-fitting clothing he'd been wearing before—now that the swelling over his ribs has gone down significantly, the sharp contours of his pecs and abs are clearly picked out, well-formed and obviously strong. His shoulders are broad and sturdy, accentuating the narrowness of his hips, and when he's not slouching he's at least six-one. He smells good now, too—Dean catches a whiff of his own Old Spice lingering in the air. Lean muscles twitch under water-flecked skin as Cas moves, and when he opens his piercing grey eyes, partially obscured by the dripping, thick raven hair plastered to his forehead, Dean feels the breath leave his own lungs in a sudden whoosh. The temperature in the room seems to go up exponentially and their gazes lock.

_Shit. He's hot. Just my fucking luck._

Dean's not gonna lie to himself—he's been attracted to men before. It's not a new development for him, or for the people who know him best. In fact, a handful of the beds he's fallen into over the years have belonged to good-looking single guys wanting a quickie. There's something about men that Dean just likes—their strength, their sturdiness, the way they aren't shy about taking control or letting loose. Women are great, hell yeah, boobs and vaginas rock, but stubble and dicks ain't too shabby, either.

Cas has stubble and a dick. Which, judging from his height and foot size, can't be all that tiny. And Dean is just now seeing how goddamned attractive he is. _Fuck my life._

Of course he'd develop a hard-on out of the blue for the injured homeless guy he's known for maybe eight hours.

He only realizes Cas is saying his name when he sees him listing slightly to the right, off-balance again. “Hey, whoa!” he says and catches him with an arm around the waist. Cas gasps harshly when his sore ribs are crushed against Dean's forearm, and Dean shifts his hold with a stuttered apology.

The two of them manage to get to Dean's bedroom without any further mishaps or injuries, and Dean leaves Cas alone to get dressed after offering to help. The invalided man blushes (adorably, _Jesus_ _shitfucking_ ) and turns Dean down, practically shoving him out of the room in his desire for privacy. “I am perfectly capable of clothing myself, thank you very much,” he insists irritably through the door. “I did it last night, in case you have forgotten.”

“True, but that was without falling in the damn shower first!”

“I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I am quite alright.” The soft sound of the towel hitting the hardwood floor reaches Dean's ears, and he bites his lip as a wave of heat courses through him.

“Okay, if you say so.”

“I believe I just did 'say so'.”

Bobby's voice echoes up the staircase, interrupting whatever the hell is going on here. “Everything alright up there?”

“Yeah, he's fine,” Dean replies. “Just slipped in the shower. He's getting dressed right now.”

A pause. “In _your_ clothes?”

“Yeah, what else is he gonna wear?” He thinks for a second, then adds, “I'll take 'im shopping later, okay?”

“That'd probably be wise.” And that's the end of that.

Dean leans against the wall beside his bedroom door and lets his head drop back, closing his eyes. He is in some serious funk today, that's for sure. First he takes in a stranger, then he feeds him breakfast, then he lends him clothes, and now he's lusting after him. While he wants to see all of these things as negatives, the elder Winchester discovers that he is strangely okay with almost all of it. He'd been raised a caretaker, so naturally he'd want to take care of a man in need—he hasn't really had anyone to take care of for a while, anyway. So the clothes and the food and the shower stuff is pretty normal for him, really, if you look at it right. It's the fucking _lust_ part that he has a problem with. For God's sake, Cas is homeless and alone and clearly has no idea what the hell to do with himself for whatever reason; there's no way it's appropriate to be wanting him. After all, as Dean had said before,  Cas is pretty much a kid in an adult's body. Does that make this pedophilia?

 _Ew, no, stop it,_ he mentally berates himself. It's not like he's suddenly in love with the man—he just happens to think he's a particularly fine piece of ass. But that's okay. People can have platonic relationships with people they're attracted to—happens all the time. He's even done it himself, with Bobby's best friend's badass daughter Jo. If he could do it then, he can do it now.

It's not even like he wants to kiss Cas. He's just hot for him a little. It's kinda like how he feels about Megan Fox—yeah, she's a decent piece of eye candy, but if she were sitting on a couch next to him, lips pursed and ripe for the taking, he'd probably balk.

Wait, no he wouldn't. That doesn't even make any sense.

Okay, fine, so he suddenly, inexplicably, _against his own free will_ now wants to kiss Cas. But he's not going to, because he has self-control, and because he would be taking advantage of someone who's insanely vulnerable. Sure, he comes on to half-drunk chicks at bars all the time, but at least they're usually smart enough to know what he means when he whispers in their ear, “Wanna get outta this place?” Cas just seems so pure and naïve, somehow above such animalistic, impure things like sex. He's just got that vibe about him—hadn't he said that his family was really religious? _He was probably homeschooled, even._

So it's decided. Dean's gonna ignore this new development in favor of honoring Cas's disposition and most-likely-still-intact virginity. Oh, and he's not gonna breathe a word about it to anyone. At all. So there. The end.

He just hopes this decision lasts longer than a week.

Finally, Cas emerges from the bedroom, clothed in jeans and a shirt from Dean's own dresser, and Dean can't ignore the way the T-shirt is a bit baggy and the jeans ride low on those slim hips, revealing the black waistband of the red plaid boxers he'd picked out. It's a desperately sexy picture, but one look at the innocent, unconditional trust shining in those grey eyes is enough for Dean to shut off his downstairs brain for a little while. “Glad you didn't fall over again,” he says with a half-forced smile.

“As am I,” Cas replies with a genuine one. One of his arms comes down to circle his ribcage again and he slowly slumps against the doorframe. “I am still quite sore, though.”

“You should be—you landed kinda hard.” Dean sidles up to him and offers his own arm for support; it's accepted with a grateful glance. “C'mon, there's someone in the living room who wants to meet you.”

Cas blinks. “The elderly bearded man who also lives here?”

“Don't let him hear you calling him that,” Dean warns with a chuckle. They start descending to the ground floor. “And he doesn't just live here. This is actually his place. He works from here, too, fixing old cars and running a boneyard. 'S called Singer Salvage."

“He—he sells _bones?_ ” Cas nearly trips, going rigid with fear. “Is he a grave thief?”

 _Don't laugh don't laugh don'tfuckinglaugh_ “No, no, like car parts.” The elder Winchester steadies his companion on the step. “You've never heard of a boneyard before?” When Cas shakes his head, panic twisting his features, Dean feels a sudden surge of healthy, completely nonsexual affection. It almost surprises him. “Basically, there's a bunch of beaters surrounding this house—you probably saw them last night when you came here—and they're all full of scrap metal and parts, like mufflers and engines and shit. People come and pay to pick through these cars to find the parts they need for their own. It's cheaper than buying 'em new, and sometimes they work better than new parts 'cuz they're already worn in.”

Cas nods in understanding, relaxing once again. “That is a great comfort,” he says earnestly. His gaze turns curious. “Is this where you work, as well?”

“Yup. I'm a mechanic. I can fix anything from antique Mustangs to this year's models, but I prefer the classics. They're a lot more...intricate. More parts doin' more things, not just computers on wheels.”

“I see.”

They get downstairs and Cas insists that he can walk on his own to the couch. Eight halting steps later, he's slouched in the cushions with a strained but satisfied look on his face. “I think I'll sit here for a while,” he says in a tight voice, trying to hide the obvious discomfort he's in but failing miserably. Dean pushes the coffee table closer to him and places a worn pillow on top of it, patiently instructing Cas to rest his wrapped foot on it. He does, and some of the tension flows out of his shoulders. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Again with the 'thank you',” Dean mutters under his breath, then calls for Bobby.

“So,” the husky man says in way of greeting as he comes out of his bedroom, changed into fresh clothes, “you're the homeless stowaway that I'm suddenly obligated to provide food and shelter for, eh?”

Cas's face falls, guilt written all over it. He wrings his hands nervously in his lap and Dean shoots Bobby a scathing glare as a warning.

“Hey, it ain't a complaint.” Bobby walks over to the couch and offers his hand to Cas, a kind smile warming his aged face. “Sorry, kid, I like to joke around. Name's Bobby Singer. Dean's told me a little about you already.”

Still looking slightly cautious, Cas reaches up and clasps the older man's hand in his own, grey eyes staring owlishly up at the face before them. He doesn't shake, just holds for about five seconds before releasing his grasp.

Bobby shoots Dean an “I-sometimes-can't-believe-the-freakshows-you-hang-out-with” glance and moves to his own chair beside the couch.

“Like I said, Bobby, he's kinda...out of it,” Dean says, not unkindly. He walks around the coffee table and takes a seat beside Cas, leaving a healthy six inches of Room For Jesus between them.

Cas's head whips around to look at him. “Was that an insult?” he asks in a gravelly tone, squinting.

“...No?”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Bobby interjects to avoid a possible conflict, “where is it that yer from, Cas? Anywhere nearby?”

“Actually, I am from a place very, very... _very_ far from Lawrence.” There's something in the injured man's voice that makes Dean furrow his brow in interest.

“Where, like Florida?” Bobby queries.

“Yes, Florida,” Cas responds almost too quickly. “Yes, that is where I, uh, grew up. Florida. I lived there with my large family for...many years. Until I decided to leave them.”

“Why'd you leave?”

Cas turns his attention to his hands in his lap again as he answers this question, repeating some information that Dean has already heard. “They are extremely religious, and I did not agree with some of their beliefs. The way they misinterpreted the nature of God was particularly irksome and rather...insulting to me, and most certainly insulting to Him. Eventually it became too much for me to endure and I stood up for what I believed myself. Which resulted in a beating and a threat, which resulted in my leaving them. It was more of an eviction, really.” He gives a tiny shrug. “I did not see any point in staying if they could not accept every aspect of my being, from my physical attributes to my ideals.”

Dean jumps in with a question at this point, ignoring the alarm he'd felt when Cas mentioned a beating. “Whaddya mean, 'physical attributes'? Did they not like the way you look or something?”

“No, they did not.” The stormy-eyed man looks up at Dean almost shyly. “I look different than they do. Their, er, hair colors are all light, while mine is dark. Also, I am the only one who was blessed with eyes of this particular color.”

“They beat you up and kicked you out 'cuz you didn't look like them?” Bobby exclaims, incredulous. Scoffing, he sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, shaking his head in disgust. “Some family they are. Good thing you left, boy—from the sound of it, you're better off as far away from those ass clowns as possible.”

“That is what Dean said earlier,” Cas says with a nod. “I believe I am better off without them, too. Unfortunately...” His gaze drops again. “...I may have to return to them soon.”

This is news. “What? Why?” Dean demands, trying to keep the rage he feels boiling within him under control. _He can't go back there—they were horrible to him! They don't fucking deserve him!_

“There is a 'task' of sorts that I am to accomplish within a certain period of time,” Cas explains almost carefully. “If I do not finish it in the designated time allotment, I am to report—er, return home. That was our agreement.”

“How much time you got?”

“...I cannot tell you that.”

“What's the task?” Bobby asks.

Dean chimes in with, “Yeah, at least tell us that. Maybe we can help you.” _Anything to keep you away from those douchenozzles for good._

_Whoa, possessive much?_

“I'm afraid I cannot divulge that information, either,” Cas admits, regret in his voice. “That was also part of the agreement. But do not worry,” he adds as Dean opens his mouth to interrupt, “it is something I can accomplish without any outside assistance.”

“But you don't _have_ to do it alone, Cas,” Dean insists, resting a hand on the other man's shoulder and looking at him pleadingly. “You're not all by yourself anymore. Three heads are better than one, y'know. Maybe we could squeeze a fourth one in, if I can talk to Sammy—”

“No, Dean.” Cas cuts the mechanic off with a hard stare and a light shove at Dean's hand, brushing it away. “It is not necessary. While I appreciate the offer, I cannot accept it. It is a highly personal matter that only I can sort out.”

“Are you—”

“Yes, I am sure.” His expression softens a little and the thunderclouds in his eyes diminish. “Thank you, though.”

Eyes locked, Dean and Cas remain staring at each other for several long moments. Dean is trying to figure out why Cas sounds so nervous and defensive when talking about these things, as if he's hiding something really important. What's the point of not being able to tell anyone about the weird-ass “mission” you're supposedly on? Is it a government thing? Something for one of Florida's Senators? Is this clueless man really some sort of assassin or hit man? His wounds _are_ pretty intense for a simple “fall”.

“I can see how hard you are thinking, Dean,” Cas says, snapping the younger man out of his conspiratorial thoughts. “I can promise you that it is nothing dangerous.”

“How about illegal?”

Cas contemplates. “No, I do not think so, when done appropriately.”

“Oookay. Whatever you say, man.” Dean releases Cas's shoulder and shifts back into his previous position on the sofa. He's not entirely convinced yet, but the honesty on Cas's face is enough to make him believe the story. For now.

Bobby's eyes flick from one man to the other before he sighs and pushes himself out of his easy chair. “Imma go for a walk through the yard,” he announces, ambling towards the front door. “Been meaning to check out our inventory for awhile now. Was nice meetin' ya, Cas.”

“Likewise,” the dark-haired man says at the same time Dean calls, “See ya later.”

The door shuts with a click and one of the windows beside it rattles. Dean stares at it for a few seconds, then turns to Cas. “Uh...so that's Bobby.”

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

The rest of the day is spent milling around the small house, eating random snacks as opposed to actually sitting down and partaking in an official meal or two. Dean's kinda bored because it's his day off—Singer Salvage isn't open on Saturdays—so he decides to watch a little TV, which is something he doesn’t get to indulge in often. It's revealed that Cas has never watched TV before in his life, and Dean is absolutely appalled. “You kiddin' me, man? Didn't your huge-ass family have a television set when you were growing up?”

“No, we didn't. We were rather conservative.”

“Were you fucking _Amish_ or something? No, never mind, don't answer that. I'll introduce you properly to the wonderful world of mindless entertainment. How old are you?”

“Thirty...nine.”

“Okay, so maybe a little young for _Star Trek_...how 'bout... _Starsky and Hutch?_ ”

“Those names are quite peculiar.”

They finally agree on _Firefly,_ which is perfect for a beginner because of its relatively short playing time and its (unfairly) small number of episodes. Dean queues it up on Netflix, thanking God not for the first time for the existence of such a website, and they delve into the exciting world of Captain Mal Reynolds and his band of space cowboys and cowgirls aboard the trusty ship _Serenity._ Dean even pops a bag of microwave popcorn, something else he hasn't done in a long time. He and Cas share the salty snack as they watch.

Trying to binge-watch fourteen forty-minute episodes of a TV series turns out to not be a smart move for someone with little to no television-watching experience. It's well past midnight when Cas starts rubbing his eyes with his fists after five episodes, and once they get through six he's squinting in the dim lighting of the living room, his eyebrows drawn together as he tries to focus on the screen. Dean feels a little guilty and offers to stop, but the tired man insists that they continue: “The storyline is far too intriguing to abandon now. I want to know what happens.” Dean doesn't comment on the stifled yawn that follows this statement.

Half an episode later, Cas is fast asleep, slumped sideways on the couch in a position that will most certainly cause him pain if he doesn't move. As carefully as he can, Dean stands, lifts the older man's legs up, and shifts them so they're stretched across the cushions more comfortably. He props one pillow beneath the injured ankle and one beneath Cas's head, then drapes an old quilt over his lax form.

As if on instinct, Cas nuzzles his head into the pillow and tugs the quilt up over his shoulders with one uncoordinated hand, grumbling in his sleep when he can't get a grip on it right away. Dean can't help but snicker at the display as he turns off the TV, bathing the room in complete darkness. Once he's made sure that Cas isn't gonna wake up in pain, the elder Winchester turns and heads up the stairs to his own bedroom.

He spares a quick glance at the sleeping man, a final assessment, before ascending.

Ten minutes later, he's in sweatpants and a T-shirt, lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling in pretty much the same manner he had last night after his “party.” The mystery feather is in his hand once again, only now it's pressed against his chest in a death grip for some reason.

Stress, that's the reason. Confusion. Conflicting emotions, really, about his new housemate. The housemate whom he is moderately attracted to and whom he has to nurse back to health to avoid massive amounts of guilt and self-loathing. Well, amounts more massive than usual.

Dean hadn’t been lying when he'd told Cas that he had only two real friends. Trust doesn’t come very easily to Dean, nor does friendship. He's not exactly an open book, willing to have the deep, personal conversations that typically keep relationships thriving. And it's not entirely his fault, either—pretty much everyone he's ever tried to get close to has stabbed him in the back in one way or another, so he's more than a little reluctant to let people in now. Sam, Bobby, and Jo are the only people that haven't irrevocably hurt him in some way—he's been frustrated with them at times, sure, but nothing they've ever done to him has been unforgivable.

That's not always the case. His eyes close and his grip on the feather tightens as he thinks about Zeke, Al, Tessa, Gordon, Adam, Lisa, and his own _father._ Dean doesn't know what it is about himself that makes people pretend to like him and then leave him in the dust without so much as a backwards glance. He'd vowed years ago, after the wonderful catastrophe that happened with Lisa, that he wouldn't ever let another person get under his skin so far that they'd be able to hurt him. Up until now, he's been pretty good with keeping up that solid, emotionless wall, not even letting it down for his frequent sexual conquests.

But _Cas_.

Within twenty-four hours, Cas, with his grey eyes and unassuming demeanor and goddamn bruised chest that looks like it was sculpted from marble, has managed to put a chink in that wall. It's small, yes, but it's a million times bigger than anything Dean has allowed in a long time. He's not even sure if he allowed it to happen now, or of it just sort of happened by itself. He thinks it's most likely the latter.

Whatever. So there's a chink. Big deal. He can patch it up somehow, he's sure. All he has to do is keep himself distant enough to prevent any further damage, and find some way of suppressing the newly-developed lust that decided to rear its head earlier. He should go to a strip joint. Better yet, he should take _Cas_ to a strip joint.

When that thought disgusts him more than it should, Dean realizes that the damn chink might be a little deeper than he'd first imagined.

He wishes he knew how Cas got his hands on a pickaxe.

Rolling over onto his side, Dean stuffs the feather back under his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut until he sees sparks. _Stop thinking and go to sleep, you idiot. It's two a.m._ A deep sigh erupts from his mouth and he feels his muscles go limp as he relaxes into his bed at last.

The pillow smells a little strange, though. Curiously, he buries his nose in the rough fabric and inhales, catching a taint of sweat and night air and...ozone? He remembers then that Cas had slept with his own head on this very pillow last night, and he realizes that this is Cas's scent. And...he kinda doesn't mind it all that much.

The pickaxe strikes the wall again, and Dean grumbles under his breath about construction noises, which makes him realize just how utterly exhausted his brain is after today. Flopping around until he's finally settled on his back, he tries to shut his mind off long enough to trick it into falling asleep. After another hour, it finally works.

His last thought before drifting off is that tonight was the second night in a row that he hadn't gone to see the sunset in the field. It's almost saddening, until he remembers that his car is mangled in the yard and he has no other way to get there, and then it becomes downright depressing. He sincerely hopes that he and Bobby can get that hunk of metal fixed before Christmas like the older man had promised.

That night, he dreams of driving the Impala down a dark county road below a starry autumn sky. Cas is in the passenger seat, and he's not hurt. He's smiling, and he's laughing, and his eyes aren't grey anymore. 

They're blue.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for reading, guys!!! Part IV--which happens to be one of my favorite parts--will be posted next friday :)


	5. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE, GUYS. I had a reeeeeeeeally shitty weekend so i just didn't have the chance to post this. But it's here now!! hope you like :)
> 
> also, this is my first ever attempt at an explicit smut scene. *gulp*

_Words fall through me_

_And always fool me_

_And I can’t react…_

**~•~•~•~•~**

The morning after his and Dean's television watching adventure—something Dean had called a “marathon,” though they had not run anywhere—Cas wakes up on the couch with a thick, warm blanket draped over him and his sore ankle propped up on a pillow. A pulsating warmth settles in his chest just behind his heart when he realizes that Dean must have done this for him, and he smiles a little into the fabric his face is still buried in. He sits up slowly, stretching his arms above his head and hearing his joints pop in a way they never have before. He winces when his ribs are jostled, but he finds that they don't hurt quite as much as they had yesterday. Perhaps Dean had given him some of those pain-relieving pills with that water bottle last night.

His stomach does the odd empty gurgling thing that it had done multiple times the day before. _Breakfast,_ Cas thinks. _Dean must make me breakfast._

Getting up off the couch is difficult without assistance, but he manages it eventually. Favoring his left foot, Cas limps to the bottom of the staircase, gazing up into the still-darkened hallway at the top. He realizes in the back of his mind that he has no idea what time it is, and hopes that he isn't being too disturbing as he calls, “Dean? Are you awake?”

In response, a loud snore reverberates off the walls.

 _I hope that I am not that noisy while sleeping_ , he thinks, not for the first time. He considers trying to climb the staircase by himself to wake Dean up, but when he tests his ankle, it is still far too tender to sustain his weight for long.

Alright, it appears that Dean will not be preparing Cas a morning meal—not only is it impossible for Cas to reach him, but once he thinks about it, waking Dean too early would probably have unpleasant consequences. Bobby is the only other option; Cas hobbles across the living room and down the small hallway that leads to the older man's bedroom. The door is closed, so Cas decides to knock and politely inquire through the warped wood, “Bobby? Mister Singer? Are you awake yet?”

There is no answer, so Cas assumes that Bobby is also still unconscious. This leaves only one person to prepare the ex-angel's breakfast: the ex-angel himself.

With as much trepidation as excitement, Cas makes his way to the kitchen. He stands in the middle of the small white-and-blue room for several moments, looking around and trying to recall which cabinets hold what. There are at least ten of them, all undoubtedly important, and he cannot remember for the life of him which small white door is concealing the bowls and which the cereal boxes. This is, of course, not to mention the six drawers that line the counter. It's all very perplexing, as he is currently extremely hungry but reluctant to rummage through each cabinet and drawer to find the items he is looking for.

Then he notices the large green bowl of fruit beside the sink, and breathes a sigh of relief. He can simply eat a banana or two, both satisfying his body's need for nourishment and avoiding the possibility of making a mess. An ideal plan.

Unfortunately, when he inspects the contents of this bowl, he is greeted by a swarm of tiny fruit flies and the sight of horribly rotted apples and oranges, and bananas that are covered in fragrant, shriveled brown splotches. Cas would not wish this food on anyone, least of all himself, so he gathers it up and throws it in the garbage receptacle beside the kitchen entrance. He places the bowl in the sink, cringing with disgust at the strange brown slime that drips sluggishly from the bowl down the drain.

Cereal is his only option now.

Some lucky twist of fate—perhaps his Father guiding his hands in some small way—allows Cas to find the small bowls behind the second cabinet door he opens. Five doors later, he discovers the cereal, and chooses Cheerios again. The milk, he knows, is kept in the refrigerator, and once he has obtained that, he sits down at the table and starts to prepare his meal.

His first mistake involves the cereal itself. When he opens the box, he sees that the transparent plastic bag containing the oats is not torn open completely, and he remedies that situation by ripping the entire top of the bag off. Figuring that this will make pouring the Cheerios easier, he grasps the box in both hands and tips it over his bowl, unprepared for the immediate flood of small brown O's that cascade onto the table and into his lap. He tries to avoid panic as he hastily rights the box and sets it down, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair as he halts the whole-grain avalanche. Scooping the cereal up with his hands seems to be the only viable clean-up option, so that's what he does, returning each handful that isn't from the floor back to the box. Crouching down to clean up the mess on the linoleum is painful but necessary—wincing at the aching in his ribs, Cas gets down on his knees and bends over, picking up every piece of cereal he can reach and dumping the three handfuls he gathers into the garbage with the rotten fruit. Thinking his troubles are over, the ex-Seraph returns to the table and opens the new plastic carton of milk to pour into his full bowl. This is where his second mistake stems from.

The carton is a lot heavier than Cas had anticipated, and when he lifts it, his grip on the handle is nowhere near strong enough and immediately slips. As the carton tips slightly, white liquid sloshes out of the opening and onto the table with an unpleasant wet sound. Startled by the unexpected noise, Cas flinches, sending more of the milk flying out of its container and splashing onto the table, his borrowed sweatpants, and the floor. Eventually he drops everything altogether, and watches helplessly as the thick liquid pours without resistance onto the linoleum, bubbling and gurgling like his own still-empty stomach.

_Thank Father that Dean is not awake to—_

“What th' hell?”

Cas jumps in his chair at the scratchy voice and his head snaps around. “D-Dean!” he exclaims, guilt and shame forcing his face to redden. He looks down at his damp nightclothes, then at the floor, then back at Dean, who is standing in the kitchen entrance looking decidedly confused. His sandy-blonde hair is sticking out in all directions from rubbing on a pillow, his green eyes are still puffy with sleep, and there is still the evidence of fabric creases on the right side of his face. He looks exhausted, but his shoulders are not tensed and the nervous wrinkles in his forehead are not yet present; he is relaxed and his guard is down, and Cas thinks he looks even more fascinating now than he had during their sunset.

Those thoughts fade quickly from Cas's mind, however, as he watches Dean fully take in the scene before him. Dean gestures somewhat lethargically to the huge opaque puddle on the floor. “Izzat milk?” he asks, still slurring his words a little.

Cas has to hang his head as he replies. “Yes, it is.”

“How'd it get on th' floor?”

“I...The container was too heavy for me to hold, and I-I dropped it.”

“Hmm,” Dean hums and rubs his eyes. “Did it make that loud _thud_ noise I heard?”

“Most likely.” Cas wrings his hands in his milk-soaked lap. “I apologize.”

Dean must sense the older man's embarrassment, because he shakes himself out of his sleepy state and walks around the puddle to the table. “Hey, don't worry 'bout it,” he says softly, leaning down to catch Cas's gaze. “Happens to all of us at least once. 'S gonna be a bitch to clean, but that's okay. No big deal.”

Cas looks up at him uncertainly. “A-Are you sure?” His voice is small, thin.

“'Course. But I'm not so sure Bobby'll see it that way, so let's get it cleaned up before he comes outta his hibernation, huh?”

This coaxes a small grin from Cas, which is mirrored by Dean as he walks over and opens the cabinet beneath the sink, producing a series of housekeeping supplies. He insists that he can do it on his own, not wanting Cas to further hurt himself by getting down on his knees, but the ex-angel joins him anyway, grabbing a stained old towel and helping to mop up his own mess.

While they're there, kneeling side-by-side on the hard kitchen floor, Cas starts thinking about Dean's inexplicable kindness again. Once again, the jade-eyed man has no reason to be doing what he's doing for Cas, and once again, Cas doesn't deserve it. What has he done to warrant this help, or indeed any of the help—clothes, bandages, a shower—that Dean has given him over the past day? They hardly know each other, really, as was pointed out yesterday. This is truly abnormal—surely Cas has found the one human on Earth who would accept him so readily into his home and attend to his needs so quickly. Cas knows of the kindness of other humans, of course, but that of Dean...well, it is almost of its own breed. As is his soul.

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” The question leaves Cas's mouth before he can stop it.

Dean pauses his towel mopping to look up at the man beside him. “Doing what? Cleaning the kitchen? 'Cuz Bobby's gonna shit a brick if he wakes up to—”

“No, I mean...” Cas pauses, trying to find a way to put every thought that's been banging around in his head lately into a simple question. Finally, he figures it out. “Why have you done...everything you have done recently...for a man whom you do not know?”

The inquiry makes Dean drop his gaze for a moment as he thinks. “I, uh, I don't really know, actually,” he responds after a few seconds. His mopping starts back up and he follows the movements of his own hands with his eyes as he continues. “This might sound kinda weird, but you don't really seem like a stranger to me, man. I mean, we've already watched four hours of TV together and shared a bedroom, and I've, er, seen you naked, too. With a towel on!” he adds before Cas can open his mouth in embarrassed outrage. “I dunno; you kinda remind me of Sammy when he was a kid—defenseless and trusting and just _needing_ someone. It's the big brother in me, I guess.”

Though he isn't angry at all, Cas quirks an eyebrow and smirks at Dean's words. “You think I am weak and childish?” he asks.

“No, no, I just meant...ugh.” Dean's hands leave his dairy-soaked towel and he pats them dry on his own sweatpants. He turns to look at Cas straight on, but still with a strange barrier just behind his eyes that Cas just can't see past. “I don't know what it is, Cas, but you...you're growin' on me. I don't feel like I've only known you for, like, thirty hours. Don't feel like I've known you forever, either, but you get my point. I just feel sorta...” His lips purse and he waves his hands aimlessly in the air, searching for a word.

“...connected to me?” Cas finishes, trying not to let too much hope seep into his voice.

Dean's hands fall back to his lap and he nods. “It's not like I'm stapled to you or anything; it's more like a...like a 'red ribbon of Fate' kinda thing. Like I've got one end and somehow you got a hold of the other, like we were meant to meet. Y'know?”

The smirk on Cas's face slowly widens into a grin as relief floods through him. “Yes,” he murmurs. “That is how I feel, as well.”

“Yeah? Uh, good.” Now it's Dean's turn to smile, if a little hesitantly.

“Does this mean we are friends?” Cas asks, not attempting to mask the hope anymore. “I know you said you don't have many, but...you seem too friendly for that to be true.”

It takes Dean longer to answer this question. He finishes mopping up the rest of the milk and sprays something pleasantly-scented over the linoleum tiles to sanitize them. He appears to be very deep in thought, and the ex-angel is about to tell him that he doesn't have to reply, but finally Dean takes a deep breath and says, “I dunno if we're there yet, Cas. But I definitely think we could be on that road.”

And that? That's enough for Cas right now. He smiles as wide as he ever has and accepts Dean's hand as it is offered to help him up off the floor. “I am glad,” he says sincerely. “I have never had a true friend before.”

“I've only had a couple myself,” Dean says understandingly, “and even those were iffy. It's kinda hard for me to trust people sometimes.”

“I am familiar with that feeling.”

“I'm real sorry to hear that. It sucks ass.”

“Yes. If emotions could physically suck asses, that particular one would do it frequently and with vigor.”

Dean laughs then, and Cas joins in after a moment, ignoring his ribs. Within thirty seconds, they're both on their knees again, in the middle of the kitchen floor, doubled over in complete hysterics. There are tears running down Dean's face, and the breathless pink tint in his cheeks brings out his freckles. The sight makes Cas smile wider, which makes him laugh harder, which causes his own eyes to well up. It's a truly joyous moment, and it would have lasted for several more seconds if Bobby had not entered the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers and an irritated frown.

After that, it lasts for several more _minutes_.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

It's almost impossible how quickly Cas finds himself becoming attached to both this house and the humans who live within it.

Yes, it is not a large building, but the grey-eyed man still feels a sense of accomplishment when he no longer has to ask Dean or Bobby to remind him where the bathroom is, or which door in the back hallway is the coat closet. After three or so days, he thinks he can probably find his way around the house with his eyes closed—though that would be unwise to attempt, as he would be more prone to tripping over things and further injuring his broken ankle.

Which, as it turns out, is not broken in the first place. After one week—seven whole days of living with Dean Winchester (a rather sonorous last name that goes well with his first) and Bobby Singer, eating meals and watching television with them—Cas finds that it no longer throbs while he is sitting still and he can walk on it with minimal or no pain at all. When Dean removes the beige bandage and gauze wrap, it is revealed that the swelling and bruising has faded so extensively that it does not appear to have even existed. Apart from some small, insignificant yellow blotches here and there, it looks like any other healthy ankle. “Huh,” the younger man says with a brow raise. “Must've just been a sprain after all.”

Cas rotates his joint slowly, then looks up at Dean hopefully when it doesn't hurt. “Does this mean I can—?”

“Yes, Cas, you can keep the cast off.” Dean tries to sound exasperated, but the hint of a pleased grin on his face says otherwise.

The first thing Cas does with this new mobility is run up the stairs to the bathroom—the once-wrapped skin smells like vinegar and stale sweat, and it's making him nauseous. He washes the lower half of his left leg in the tub with the Old Spice soap that he has learned belongs to Dean, making him smile privately at the thought of smelling like his fr—his _acquaintance._ Not quite “friend” yet, but close. This thought makes Cas's smile a little less private, and it catches on his lips. He already considers Dean his friend, of course, but respecting Dean's own feelings and mindset is more important to Cas than immediately placing a label on their relationship.

“Well,” Dean says, looking pleased with his hands on his hips and a grin stretched across his face as Cas comes back downstairs unaided, “guess you don't need my help to walk anymore. And no more bags in the shower.”

“No, thank the Lord,” Cas sighs, relieved. The deep breath makes his side twinge a little, and his hand automatically goes to his ribcage. “But if you could remind me to continue breathing shallowly, that would be most helpful.”

“Keep breathing shallowly.”

After lunch, Dean asks Bobby if he can have the rest of the afternoon off to go “do something” with Cas. The older man agrees after some negotiations, and before he knows it Cas is stuffing his feet into a pair of too-big black work boots, putting on a worn leather jacket, and following Dean outside to the car he's using while he and Bobby work on fixing the Impala. This blue car is something called a _Challenger_ , a name Cas quite likes, and the noise it makes is loud and rumbling and almost sounds like Dean when he laughs deep in his chest. The Winchester revs the engine a few times, shooting a smirk at Cas in the passenger seat, and drives out of the boneyard. A plume of dirt flies up behind the car as Dean accelerates, and Cas can't help but smile at the joy etched on the other man's face.

Dean notices him looking and shrugs almost modestly. “I love cars,” he states. “This one ain't my Baby, but it'll definitely do.”

“I like it,” Cas says with a nod.

They continue down a county road for about ten minutes when the ex-angel realizes he has no idea where they're going. “Um, Dean?” he asks tentatively. “Where exactly are you taking me?”

“To the local clothing store,” Dean replies, keeping his emerald eyes focused on the road through the windshield. “You've been wearing my hand-me-downs for a week now. 'S high time we got you your own wardrobe, doncha think?”

Cas looks down at the jacket, the worn T-shirt, and the slightly baggy jeans he's wearing. “But I like your clothes.”

Something strange comes over Dean's face for a brief moment, but it's shaken off quickly. “Yeah, I know, but they don't always fit and I'm running outta stuff to lend you. The washer we got at home is old and can only do, like, five shirts at a time.”

“I understand.” Cas pauses, considering. “How will we be paying for these clothes? You have not worked much this week, and Bobby has told me that you do not have much money.”

“Hey. You just let me worry about that, okay? It'll be fine. I've got ways.”

“...If you insist.”

They arrive in the heart of the small town a handful of minutes later. Dean parks the Challenger outside a small store with a large front window, which showcases several faceless plastic bodies posed in different ways, all wearing clothing with the price tags still hanging off of them. Cas finds them mildly frightening, so he keeps them out of his line of vision.

“When was the last time you got yourself some new, clean clothes?” Dean asks Cas as they enter the store, triggering a small bell above the door.

Cas sighs before replying as he feels the warmth flood over him—it is getting cold outside, and the heating in this building is much like that of the grocery store. “Never.

Dean's expression almost saddens. “Never? Not once?”

“No. I managed with what I had,” Cas explains once he finds the words. He thinks of his glowing silver armor, of his pure white clothing (that Dean had disposed of the night of his arrival), and the tan trenchcoat he had worn on his Earth visits. “It is alright,” he reassures when Dean still looks a little upset. “This is exciting for me. A new experience.”

“If you insist,” Dean says, and Cas smiles at him. They grab a plastic cart from near the door and walk further into the building. “Okay, you're close to my size, so Large shirts and size thirty-two—maybe thirty—pants should fit you.”

As soon as he gets this information, Cas is off, already making a beeline for the “T-SHIRT” section and towing a confused but accepting Dean in his wake. The ex-angel finds a rack of dark shirts labeled “GRAPHIC” and picks out a few with band names and odd-but-attractive colored designs on them. He holds up his choices in front of Dean, who scans them critically and points out, “Those look just like mine.”

“I told you, Dean. I like your clothes.”

Any further comments that Dean was going to make die in his throat at that. He doesn't say another word as Cas proceeds to dump T-shirts, frayed dark-denim jeans, Henleys, flannels of various colors, and even a green army jacket into the cart. It's starting to look a lot like Dean's own closet; even Cas notices this, but he doesn't really care. He likes Dean's clothes, so why should he purchase anything different for himself? The thought of dressing like Dean, on top of already smelling like him and living with him, makes a small sun bloom into life somewhere behind Cas's stomach, warming him from head to foot.

The private “dressing rooms” are located at the back of the store, so the pair heads there once their cart is pretty much full. Dean had made Cas pick up some sweatpants, undershirts, and boxers, too, but he tells Cas not to try those last items on until they get back to Bobby's.

“Gotcha,” Cas says with an awkward wink-and-point gesture that he'd picked up from Dean. One glance at the other man's face tells him that he hasn't executed it quite right, though, so he just scoops up an armful of fabric and slinks away, feeling himself beginning to blush. He does so even more as he strips down behind the thin door, suddenly wary of someone barging in and invading his privacy. Disrobing in a public building is more intimidating than he had first imagined.

He tries on each shirt with the same pair of jeans, since most of the pairs are a similar color and style. Reminding himself to put on an undershirt first, Cas buttons up a red flannel to begin. The stiff fabric smells crisp and inky, like the store, but it fits him just right. He turns around, assessing himself in the full-length mirror mounted on one wall of the small room. He looks...different. Put-together. Like a typical middle-aged human male, no wings, no halo, just...himself, in colorful clothing with hardly any white anywhere on it—he's actually wearing what he _chooses_ to wear for once, and he quite likes that. The long sleeves are the only things that are off; they don't sit right on his arms at their full length, so he rolls them up to just below his elbow, as he has seen Dean do before. This improves his image, and he can't help but stare into his own grey eyes and quirk a small smile at himself. With the top three buttons of the plaid shirt undone—also a parody of Dean's style—he steps out of the cubicle to show his companion.

Dean does a double-take and blinks a few times when he first sees Cas dressed in clothes that actually fit him. “Uh...wow,” he remarks eloquently, his eyes roving over every last inch of Cas's body.

“Is this acceptable?” Cas queries, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of Dean's almost hungry gaze. He shifts his bare feet on the rough carpet, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

“Yeah, no, it's great, man.” Their eyes lock, and Dean nods affirmatively. “Really, you look good. Shoulda known you'd like plaid after hangin' out with me for a week.”

“I admit I was inspired by your taste somewhat. Does that make you uncomfortable? Because I can easily change it if—”

“It wasn't a complaint, Cas, just a joke.” An easy smile spreads across Dean's face like a ray of sunlight. “You get what you like, even if it's what I like, too. Trust me, I don't mind one bit.”

Cas can feel himself preening like a proud exotic bird. “Alright.”

“Go on; try on something else and lemme see.”

Cas does just that, putting on every shirt he's picked out. He makes three piles to organize them all on the small bench inside the dressing room, designating them “Yes,” “No,” and “Undecided.” Most of the shirts go directly to the “Yes” pile, but a few are definite “No”s—like the yellow and orange flannels, which aren't attractive on him at all, and the “Maroon 5” tee, which Dean forbids him from buying for some strange reason. Whenever a shirt is headed towards the “Undecided” pile, Cas comes out and shows it to Dean, who sizes him up and gives the final decision. “You forgot to take off the undershirt, you dope,” he says at one point when Cas appears in a wrinkled, extremely tight Metallica shirt. Once that problem is resolved, he decides he still doesn't like the way it looks.

Sometimes Cas comes out wearing the green jacket over one of the shirts, and Dean's only response is a slightly mystified smile and a quiet variation of “Looks fine.” This is, for some reason, Cas's favorite reaction.

The last shirt Cas appears in is an unbuttoned white Henley with thin grey stripes; it reveals an extensive expanse of the column of his neck and each of his collarbones, which he is not altogether used to. Its sleeves end just below his elbow without him having to roll them up, which is convenient, and he thinks he looks rather handsome. This shirt is one that Dean does not have a twin of—most of his white shirts go beneath darker ones—so in a sense, this is one of Cas's first real discoveries of his own sense of style.

Dean scrunches his face up as he studies Cas before him, pursing his lips into a fine line. Cas feels disappointment settle in his chest and his shoulders slump. “You don't like it,” he intones dejectedly.

“It's not that I don't like it,” Dean says, still assessing. “Just think there's something—aha!” His face lights up in realization. “Wait here!” He turns and nearly sprints away from the dressing rooms, leaving Cas standing there alone, feeling awkward in bare feet and starchy clothes.

After one minute that feels like fifteen, Dean returns with something shiny and black draped over one arm. “C'mon,” he instructs and tugs on Cas's arm, leading him back into the cubicle and closing the door behind them.

Cas stands with his back to the mirror, slightly bewildered, as Dean unfolds the heap of fabric he's carrying—it's a simple black leather jacket, nothing too extravagant, with a modest amount of silver zippers and buttons sewn into it. The lapels are only a few inches wide, which Cas likes, and it even has some faint embroidered detailing on the sleeves and chest—

—including a pair of small angel wings, stitched with care just above where the wearer's heart would be.

The ex-Seraph feels his pulse accelerate at this sight, but tries to remain nonchalant. “Uhm...wh-what's this?”

“A leather jacket, duh,” Dean replies, smiling excitedly. “Thought it would look good on you with that shirt.”

“And what made you pick this one in particular?”

“I dunno. Just liked the detailing on it,” Dean says honestly, gazing at it in his hands. “Reminded me of you—you said you're religious, right? There's a cross on this shoulder,” he points out, gesturing to the right sleeve, “and little angel wings right here.”

“Y-Yes, I noticed that part.” Cas tries not to gulp.

Dean's eyebrows knit together in concern, then mild disappointment. “Not your taste, I guess. Sorry.” He moves to leave the room.

“No, wait! I'll try it on.” That expression is one that Cas never wants to see on the Winchester's face again.

“You don't have to if you don't wanna.”

“But I do want to. I do.” Cas holds out his hands for the jacket, his temporary shock gone. “Please,” he pleads, blinking beseechingly.

Dean pauses, then hands Cas the jacket. Cas slips it on over the Henley, tugging the sleeves into a comfortable position and running his hands over the soft, matte leather. It hugs his body rather nicely, he must admit. Once it's situated correctly on his shoulders, Cas looks up at Dean for approval.

What he gets is an awe-filled stare. The forest of Dean's eyes is alive with a vivid gleam that Cas has never seen before as Dean rakes his gaze up and down the ex-angel's body, taking in the full picture. The tip of his tongue flicks out to swipe at his full lips, and Cas finds himself following the motion with his own eyes, a strange flutter erupting in his stomach. He thinks he even sees a pink tint rise in Dean's cheeks, but he writes it off as a result of the dim lighting in these rooms.

Eventually, Dean clears his throat and blinks a few times, the hue and luster of his eyes returning to the norm. “Yeah, that...works for you, Cas,” he says in a husky voice.

“Does it?” Cas is still having difficulty tearing his eyes away from Dean's moistened lips.

“Mm-hmm. See for yourself.” Dean reaches out and places his hands on Cas's shoulders—Cas's heart nearly stops beating—and spins him around to face the mirror.

The image there is, admittedly, attractive. Cas likes the way the jacket broadens his shoulders and cuts inwards towards his waist, making it seem more narrow. The embroidered wings are just noticeable behind the left lapel, picked out in dark blue thread unlike any of the other subtle designs, and Cas's mouth twitches up in a small smile at the sight.

It's hard to focus on himself, though, when Dean is standing so close behind him, one hand still resting between Cas's shoulder blades. He can feel Dean's breath buffeting the skin on the back of his neck, making goosebumps spread from there to his covered arms and legs. The heat radiating off of Dean's body and seeping through three layers of fabric to Cas's skin is almost unnatural, but Cas finds that he likes it. Those piercing green eyes meet his own grey ones in the mirror after a few seconds, and their gazes remain locked for several heartbeats.

There's a strange tension in the air that Cas has never felt before. He feels himself waiting for Dean to do something, but has no idea what that something is. The scant distance between their bodies and faces is charged with something like electricity, invisible but not intangible, as though one of them has sprouted wings like Raphael's and wrapped the spark-ridden plumage around both their bodies. Cas leans back minutely into the touch of Dean's calloused hand, and Dean doesn't move away. In fact, he presses closer, shuffling forwards a half-step so Cas can feel his chest lightly brushing his own back.

They stay like that for what feels like hours, pressed together, taking in each other's reflections, until Cas works up the courage to break the connection between their gazes. Heart pounding and hands starting to perspire where they're clenched in nervous fists at his sides, he turns his head a few degrees to the right, and his nose unintentionally brushes against the sandpaper skin of Dean's jaw. The taller man gasps almost silently and dips his chin down a fraction of an inch, eyelids slipping closed. “Cas...” he whispers, voice rough.

“Dean...?” Cas can barely breathe. It's like the first time he saw Dean in that field, the watercolor sky reflecting in his eyes—all thought has left his mind, leaving only his awareness of Dean's proximity to him and the warmth of Dean's hand and chest against his back and Dean's scent and the feeling of Dean's light stubble scratching the tip of his nose and the never-ending, never-slowing whirlwind that is Dean's touch and Dean's breath on his lips and Dean and Dean and _Dean..._

All at once, here, in a public dressing room, dressed in stiff, odd-smelling clothes, surrounded on almost all sides by half-naked strangers with three thin walls and one flimsy door separating them all, Cas wants to kiss Dean.

The realization is not a surprising one, if he is honest with himself, but nor is it entirely expected. He has felt this...“connection” to Dean for some time, and he has always been confused by it. Ever since seeing his face, his soul, on that night in the field; ever since saving Dean's life with a gentle touch of his lost Grace, Cas has wanted to be close to Dean, to protect him, to stay by his side. He'd never known the reason he likes to watch the way Dean walks, or listen to his laugh, or observe how his hands move when he's working on a car engine (though he has only witnessed that phenomenon once). He hadn't known why the sight of Dean's smile alone can make him smile too, why Dean's kindness has touched him so deeply. He hadn't known why the mere thought of Dean being “broken” as a child sends his stomach and heart twisting into painful knots, but he thinks he does now. All the signs are there.

He is attracted to Dean Winchester.

And they are about to kiss.

And he is suddenly, inexplicably, stupidly terrified.

Jolting himself out of his trance, Cas clears his throat with a cough and quickly steps a few feet away from Dean, breaking every aspect of their connection in one fluid, deliberate movement. “I approve of this jacket, Dean; thank you for finding it for me.” He shucks it off and plops it onto the “Yes” pile with the rest of his shirts.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, y-you're welcome for, uh, that. The jacket, I mean. Obviously.” Dean sounds as flustered as Cas feels; the ex-Seraph watches as he stuffs his hands in his own jacket pockets, a deep, rosy flush rising on his cheeks and accenting his freckles in a newly-attractive manner. Cas averts his gaze, focusing a little too intently on folding his jacket into a neat square.

“Let's, um, make our purchases, shall we?” he says when he's finished and stands up straight.

“That's a good idea, yeah. Uh-huh.” Dean remains where he is, shuffling his feet.

Cas stares at him in expectation, but for a different reason this time. “May I have some privacy to change my clothes, please?”

“Yeah, 'course.” Dean beats a hasty retreat from the cubicle, his hands shaking as he undoes the simple lock and opens the door.

Cas closes it behind him, latches it, and promptly drops his forehead against it with a frustrated, confused sigh. Attraction to Dean is not an option. The Winchester is merely his caretaker, his medic, his acquaintance-almost-friend; Cas knows enough about platonic human relationships from his discreet observations to understand how adding a romantic element can ruin them— _especially_ in male-male relationships. He cannot afford to risk that with Dean, he simply cannot.  Dean would kick Cas out of Bobby's house, leaving him alone and confused with nowhere to go. He wouldn't last another week if he had to fend for himself, and Raphael would probably take him back to Heaven prematurely because of his pathetic failure of “blending in seamlessly” with humanity.

It's as simple as that. Cas may be attracted to Dean, he may want to kiss Dean, but he will ignore these feelings and impulses for the sake of their relationship—whatever it is—and the sake of his own health and well-being.

_But Dean appeared to want to kiss me, as well._

No. No, it was just the proximity making him nervous. It is human instinct to lean against something which is leaning against oneself, and to tilt one's head down when one feels something brushing against one's jaw. That is all—besides, the state of Dean after the extended moment was one of panic and embarrassment, not sexual arousal, no matter how much it may have looked like that at first.

The truth can be painful at times, but that does not detract from the fact that it is, indeed, the truth.

With this decided, Cas changes back into Dean's old clothes—trying his hardest to remain mentally and emotionally neutral as he does so—and loads all of his own clothes back into the cart that Dean has waiting outside the dressing room. They avoid eye contact the entire way from the back of the store to the front, where the cashiers are, until Cas spots something on a rack that he simply must have.

It's a long, tan trenchcoat, like the one that he'd worn as an angel on his Earth visits.

Dean speaks, but the words sound forced out of his mouth. “Why d'you want that?”

Cas has to think fast for a logical reason. “It, er...reminds me of Captain Mal's brown coat,” he finally says, feeling clever for remembering this detail from the TV show he and Dean had just completed last night.

The reference actually gets a chuckle out of Dean, and he shrugs one shoulder in acquiescence. “Yeah, I guess there's a resemblance,” he admits with a small grin. “Sure, toss it on the pile."

Dean pays with a credit card that Cas does not think is his own, and they load all six giant bags of clothing into the spacious trunk of the blue Challenger parked out front. Cas feels better knowing that he will no longer have to take advantage of Dean's own dresser.

The ride home is quiet, the silence only broken by the mechanical purr of the car's engine and the quiet sounds of a classic rock song emanating from the speakers. Cas stares out the window for most of the drive, watching the birds in their swarms and V-formations flying south in anticipation of the oncoming winter. He tries not to think about Dean sitting three feet away from him, with the same thoughts and moments Cas is thinking about probably running through his head.

But then the talk show host on the radio utters the phrase “sucks ass,” and Cas and Dean exchange a knowing glance in the same moment before they both start snickering.

By the time they arrive back at Singer Salvage, the air is clear and all tension is miraculously gone. They exit the car, gather up Cas's new wardrobe, and haul it inside the house to be cleaned, sorted, and stuffed into a large trunk that has been sitting pointlessly in Dean's closet for years.

Cas is relieved beyond words at this sudden return to normalcy and sends a silent prayer of thanks to his Father for the passage of time and the resolution of issues.

Despite the fact that he isn't certain if their “issue” has actually been resolved.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

_I almost kissed Cas._

_And Cas almost kissed me back._

This is the extent of Dean's train of thought for the remainder of the day. He never mentions it, Cas never mentions it, they both act as though it never happened, and Dean's fine with that. Completely fine with it, in fact, because the mere thought of bringing it up makes him want to lose his meager lunch in the nearest toilet.

Yeah, he'd almost gone in for the kill—Cas had been leaning back into him, grey eyes hooded and unfocused, plush lips parted and willing and only scant inches from Dean's own. He was about to throw caution to the wind and show Cas something he's probably never even done before. The moment had been right, the feeling had been right; all he'd needed was a sappy eighties love song and a few candles and he'd have made that little dressing room the most romantic place on the planet.

But Cas had seemed to realize what was happening at the last moment and balked. He'd pulled away from Dean like he'd been scalded, muttering something about the jacket and “making purchases” in that deep, unbearably velvety voice. The sound that comes out of the stormy-eyed man's throat when he speaks is how midnight blue would sound if it were a noise.

Dean thinks he has a new favorite color.

What he doesn't know is why Cas backed off. Had he just been nervous? Had Dean's breath smelled? The elder Winchester doesn't think that's the case; he'd popped an Altoid while they were in the car on the way to the store. Had Dean been coming on too strong? Was Cas even _into_ guys?

Dean sits down on the living room couch, nursing a beer while he waits for Cas to get out of the shower, and considers that last question. There's never been occasion to ask about Cas's sexual preference or history—Dean thinks it's still probably too early in their almost-friendship to talk about shit like that—so he doesn't really have a clue about any of it. For all he knows, Cas isn't a virgin at all—maybe he's the kinkiest sonuvabitch that ever walked the Earth and gets off on feigning innocence. Maybe he's a hooker. Maybe he's _trans_ (though that wouldn't bother Dean in the least). This guy could have the most checkered past of anyone Dean's ever met, and Dean's got the audacity to think that even for a moment, there was something there between them.

There obviously wasn't, and there obviously still isn't. Cas is just the homeless guy he and Bobby have taken in and cared for; nothing more, nothing less. Yes, Dean considers him an almost-friend, which is kind of a big deal for him, but that's beside the point. All he is certain of is that he cannot, should not, and will not make a move like that again on the other man. No matter what Cas's past is, he'd obviously been flustered and a little scared after their... _encounter._ There'd been a flash of something in those tiny thunderclouds when they'd met Dean's own emeralds, sure, but it had faded abruptly once reality sank in. Cas is brushing it off now, but Dean knows that feelings of regret and disgust are probably still lingering in his head beneath that perpetually-sexed-up mop of dark hair.

Cas doesn't want him. He _can't._

Dean just wishes he could get that thought through his own thick skull.

Just as it's starting to break through the first of fifteen stubborn layers, Dean hears the shower shut off. He immediately remembers Cas wrapped up in a towel and imagines lewdly what had been concealed beneath it— _foot size—_ before he can stop himself. Slapping a hand down over his eyes in exasperation, Dean slumps back in the couch with a drawn-out sigh.

“Dean, the shower is vacated,” Cas calls from the top of the stairs as he exits the bathroom, and if that isn't the damnedest thing—the shower's not “open,” it's not “free,” it's fuckin' “vacated.” Cas is gonna kill Dean with his elaborate speech patterns and big words if he's not careful.

“'Mkay, thanks,” he replies and gets up with a grunt once he hears Cas close the bedroom door.  Checking that there aren't any drenched, half-naked male specimens still lingering in the hallway, he leaves his half-empty beer on the coffee table and trudges up the steps to the bathroom, locking himself in. He looks in the mirror, meets his own eyes, and nods resolutely.

Tonight is definitely a night for a jerk-off.

He strips down and starts the water up, already feeling himself pulsing a little in anticipation. It's been like a month since he'd last pleasured himself, and the thought of getting his hand on his cock after so long is starting to make him itch beneath his own skin. It'll be quick and dirty, yeah, but it'll be something. He steps beneath the spray of hot water and lets his head tip back, closing his eyes and savoring the feeling of warm rain on his bare chest. His left hand comes up and lightly glides over his nipples, making him gasp quietly. With shaking arms, he grabs blindly for the shampoo and gets a decent dollop in the palm of his hand. He scrubs it through his hair, loving the way the suds feel as they slowly drip down his damp skin, and lets them sit as he drags his soapy right hand to his already half-hard member.

The contact of slick skin on slick skin is enough for him to drop his jaw in ecstasy, barely holding onto a moan in the back of his throat. He starts to stroke, pumping slowly and rhythmically and teasing the head every few beats with a swipe of his thumb. Within five minutes, he's at full attention and ready for some filthy fantasizing. Awkward, articulate Cas is the very last thing on his mind.

Who should he picture? Hmm, how about that diner waitress from Des Moines a few months back? He forgets her name, but he'd liked her—she's between twenty and twenty-five years old and about eight inches shorter than him, with wide, honest green eyes and long red hair. Her tits are B's, maybe C's, and she's a petite little thing with plump pink lips and small, skilled hands. _Yeah, she'll do._

Her smirk is devilish as she kneels down before him, naked, of course. In a mimic of what she had done to him in Iowa, she leans down and takes the tip of his cock in her mouth with a slow blink.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean mutters, eyes still closed, and his hand speeds up.

The girl hums around him as he cusses and she sinks her mouth further down the shaft, squeezing gently with one pink-nailed hand at the length she can't yet swallow. Dean moves his hand in time with hers, imagining those deft fingers were real and touching him like this in person. She knows what she's doing, this nameless illusion, and Dean almost wishes he could actually knot his fingers in her hair and pull her up for a kiss, tasting himself on her tongue.

This thought makes the girl giggle cutely and she pulls off of his cock with a _pop._ Stroking the warm flesh with a lascivious grin, she stares at him dead-on, lips spit-slick and bitten red. She's one of the sexiest things Dean has ever seen, and the sight of her like this forces a small moan out of Dean's mouth. His hand pumps and twists and teases with hers as he watches her scoot minutely closer on her knees and stare up into his eyes.

The next time she blinks those long lashes, her eyes turn from green to blue. And they aren't just any blue—they're the blue of those eyes Dean had seen a week or so ago, on the night of his accident. They're ancient and mysterious and somehow omnipotent, and they burn a hole straight through him. He releases his loudest moan yet, failing to hold it back, and brings his free hand up to his mouth to bite down on. _Damn these thin walls,_ he thinks bitterly.

His hips snap forwards of their own accord when the girl suddenly takes his entire length in her mouth, enveloping it in tight, wet heat and never breaking eye contact with him once. “Shit shit shit,” he grits out past his left hand and moves his right even faster, the soft sound of slapping flesh barely transcending the sound of the water falling around him into the tub.

_Really hope Cas can't hear me._

The instant he thinks that three-letter name, the waitress's auburn hair stains black, cascading down over her bare back and shoulders in obsidian waves. The oceanic depths of her eyes intensify and she hums around him again.

“God _fucking_ dammit.” He's not gonna last long with this mouth and those eyes on him, taking him apart in so many delicious ways. “Oh...”

Dean's hand is flying over his cock now and he tries to remain focused on the fantasy playing out behind his closed lids. The vision of the girl sharpens as he feels himself climbing closer and closer to his inevitable release, bound to be a good one after a month of abstinence. He wants to make it last, wants to draw it out and torture himself, but the clarity of that sapphire gaze is making it impossible for him to hold back. He feels like he's fifteen again, only just discovering what wonders he can work with his right hand and some soap in a motel shower, biting his lip to stifle the sounds he's making. He feels tense and warm and full of flashbulbs.

Another minute or two of this exquisite feeling and Dean's there, balanced on the edge, needing something, _anything,_ to send him falling. He's so close he can hardly stay upright and he leans back against the cool shower wall, sinking his teeth further into his left hand as his right continues mercilessly wringing his darkening erection. He can feel every pounding throb of his pulse in his dick, and each one sends him ratcheting up a tiny bit higher. _Please,_ he silently begs the girl in his mind, whimpering out loud, _please, do something, fucking do something else, ugh, fuck, please, please, Cas—_

The waitress's eyes morph from blue to slate grey in a heartbeat, and that's it. Dean loses control, sighing and moaning and panting around his hand as his hips buck into his fist, forcing every last drop of hot release out of him. It paints his fingers, his chest, the plastic curtain in front of him, and the face of the imaginary girl just before she fades out of existence. Every muscle in his body relaxes and the tension flows out of him, leaving the tub down the drain with the water, jizz, and shampoo. He hisses, releasing his hand from his mouth and cringing at the depth of the bite marks, as the aftershocks make him shiver from head to foot.

It takes a minute and a half for his knees to get steady enough to hold him up again. _Holy shit,_ he thinks, still a little bewildered by the force of that orgasm. He hasn't come that hard in he doesn't know how long, and God, he'd needed that. His nerves had been on the verge of fraying completely, and a good lay—even if it was only with his right hand—had been the perfect remedy. He rinses himself and the curtain off with the sprayer before snatching the washcloth and Old Spice off the edge of the tub. His hands still have minute tremors coursing through them as he scrubs himself down.

It's only after he steps out of the shower with a towel around his waist that Dean realizes he'd seen stars because he'd pictured _Cas's eyes_ looking up at him. He stops short, considering this for a moment. Sure, it had only been for a brief instance at the end of his session, but it had been _the_ instance, the tipping point, the one thing that had sent him careening off the edge of that precipice to drown in a sea of exquisite agony. 

_I thought about Cas while masturbating._

**_FUCK_ ** _._

So much for ignoring the attraction. Now it's only a matter of time before he gives himself away.

That is, if he hasn't already. Dean holds his breath as he unlocks and opens the bathroom door, anxious about whether or not Cas had been close enough to hear his performance ten minutes ago. Thankfully, he finds that he's the only one upstairs and scurries to his bedroom before anyone—namely, Cas—has the chance to see him wrapped in a towel. If his almost-friend crosses his path after all that's gone on in his head recently, Dean cannot and will not be held responsible for his actions. His wall is crumbling, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep it from caving in.

He gets dressed in his usual sweats and tee and heads downstairs for a light dinner—he's not all that hungry, if he's honest. Although hydration would be a good idea.

 

 **~•~•~•~•~**  

 

The next day passes uneventfully. Dean is relieved to find that Cas has seemingly forgotten the whole Dressing Room Incident. He acts completely normal, grinning occasionally and not understanding references and being utterly awkward in general. The mechanic responds in kind by continuing to make the references that Cas doesn't understand and good-naturedly teasing him when he can't figure out how the microwave works. It's an odd normalcy, yes, and it's only had a week to form, but already Dean finds it comforting. Having something “normal” isn't, well, _normal_ in his life, so this is a nice change.

An almost-friend is the really nice change. A fully-acknowledged _friend_ would be even better, but curse his guarded heart, Dean's just not ready to go and use that word yet. Every time he's thrown that term around, it's come back and either slapped him painfully in the face or stabbed him in the back. While he doesn't think Cas is the face-slapping, back-stabbing type, it would be nice to avoid any and all chances of finding out.

It's Cas's ninth day of residence at Singer Salvage when he checks yet another box of requirement on Dean's mental Friend Application: he meets Sam. And he's fully conscious this time, too, which is a plus.

The three men are cleaning up in Bobby's kitchen after a modest dinner—soda and Chinese take-out, at which Cas had wrinkled his nose at first but eventually warmed up to—when the brass bell over Bobby's front door jangles, announcing the arrival of a guest. Then it jangles a second time when that guest hits his rat's nest of a head on it, and Dean immediately knows who it is. A bright smile stretches across his face and he calls his brother’s name, setting down the garbage bag he'd been tying and hurrying out into the living room to greet his giant little brother.

“How'd you know it was me?” comes the confused response. Sam's lanky frame fills the doorway as he toes off his boots and shucks his coat, but the grin on his face has enough Wattage to power Bobby's small home for a decade. No matter how often they meet, the brothers never get tired of that initial feeling of joy and relief at seeing each other.

“The bell, dummy.” Dean walks over and slings his arms tightly around his brother's muscled torso and shoulders, and sighs with contentment as he feels himself being embraced in return. Physical contact has always been one of the elder Winchester's most prominent needs, and Sam's hugs simply cannot be beaten in their ability to satisfy.

“Just stopped by to check in before I leave for that hunt in Montana tomorrow,” the younger Winchester explains as he pulls away from his brother after a good ten-second embrace.

“Oh, yeah, the one you left that note about. Sounds like it'll be fun,” Dean says. He tries to sound enthusiastic for his brother's sake, but they both know that he's never liked hunting. Just another thing that John Winchester ruined for his oldest son.

They chat for a minute longer until they're interrupted by a gravelly voice from behind them. “Dean? Are you going to return and assist with—oh.”

Dean turns and smiles when he sees a mildly confused Cas standing in the kitchen doorway, trash bag in hand, looking as though he's just interrupted something very private. “Yeah, Cas, I'll be there in a minute,” Dean reassures him with a small nod.

“Wait—Cas?” The shock in Sam's voice is palpable. “You mean the Cas that showed up on Bobby's stoop with a broken ankle and filthy clothes a week ago?”

 _Yeah, this could take some explaining._ Dean faces his brother again and shrugs almost sheepishly. “The ankle was just sprained, actually. Healed up about two days ago. Oh, and we went clothes shopping.”

Sam is still clearly in disbelief. His eyes widen to the size of a .50 caliber exit wound. “You—you went _clothes_ shopping.”

“Yup.”

“For a homeless stranger.”

Dean hears the rustle of a plastic garbage bag as Cas shifts uncomfortably where he still stands some ten feet behind the brothers. “He ain't a stranger anymore, Sammy,” the mechanic says quickly, keen to make this point clear to both Cas and Sam. “We cleaned him up and fed him and made sure he healed up alright, and we're lookin' out for him. He's got nowhere and no one, so we're helping him out by giving him a place to stay for awhile. Bobby's fine with it.”

“...Okay.” Sam seems to be grasping the concept a little better, but he's still assessing the grey-eyed man in his peripheral vision. “For how long, exactly?”

Dean glances back once again at his almost-friend. “For as long as he needs,” he replies determinedly. He catches the quick grin that quirks the corner of Cas's mouth and feels warmth settle in his stomach at the sight. Their gazes lock and stay locked, time ceasing to pass.

Sam doesn't respond right away; Dean can feel his brother's hazel eyes burning into the back of his own skull with curiosity. Eventually, Sam interjects with, “I, uh, I'm gonna go help Bobby with that garbage,” and brushes past Cas as he enters the kitchen, snatching the heavy black bag from the shorter man's hands without a word. Dean chooses not to interpret this strange behavior.

Once they're alone again, Cas wipes his hands on the new grey tee he's wearing and turns his attention back to Dean. “So, that is your brother?” he asks, taking a few steps into the living room and sitting down in the closest easy chair. “He is very...large. And you do not look much alike.”

Dean smirks and takes a seat on the couch, propping his socked feet up on the coffee table. “Yeah, we don't,” he admits. “But he's the last real family I've got left. Looks don't really factor into the equation in that kind of situation.”

The almost pitying look that passes over Cas's face at this admission does not go unnoticed. “You must care for him a great deal,” he says softly.

Dean just nods. _Understatement of the century._ It's hard to imagine anyone or anything mattering to Dean as much as Sam does.

“That is wonderful.”

The sincerity in Cas's voice and smile warms the space behind Dean's heart, but leaves Dean confused. “Uh...I guess?” the elder Winchester responds mildly.

“It is pleasant to see two brothers who actually love one another,” Cas explains, something wistful and hurt behind his eyes. “I wish I could have experienced that myself, in my own family.”

Balking at the use of the “L” word, Dean shifts his gaze to his own hands in his lap and plays with his fingers. Unsure of just what to say, he settles with, “Well, I, uh, I'm sure you will someday, Cas.” _Wow. Real comforting, Dean-o._

Cas hums his agreement, but it's halfhearted at best. After a few seconds, he diverts the conversation. “I am glad to finally get the opportunity to meet him.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, looking back up at the other man. “Yeah. You were kinda woozy last time.”

“I remember his voice...and, vaguely, his face. His immense size is something I did not register then, however.”

“He was a foot shorter than me until he turned seventeen. Shot up like a friggin' weed. Before I knew it, I had to crane my neck to look him in the eyes. 'S why I call him 'Sasquatch.'”

A familiar puzzled crinkle appears between Cas's eyes and Dean quickly clarifies for him. “It's a big, hairy monster.”

“Ah.” And then Cas laughs, and Dean can't keep himself from joining in. Something about seeing that stoic, perpetually confused face contorted into a toothy grin and those stormy eyes lit up with mirth makes Dean physically unable to remain straight-faced. The two almost-friends sit and laugh with one another for an indeterminable amount of time, completely oblivious to their surroundings. If Dean's honest with himself, that's been happening to him a lot more often ever since Cas showed up.

Naturally, this is the perfect time for Bobby and Sam to walk into the room and force them to stutter into silence. The strange, almost knowing glint in Bobby's eyes fills Dean with defensiveness and, tearing his gaze away from Cas's still-grinning lips, he blurts, “Was just explaining Sasquatches to him.”

The corner of Sam's mouth twitches as his opal eyes flit from his brother on the couch to the once-homeless man in Bobby's favorite chair. Sam appears to be on the brink of speech, but much to Dean's relief, he keeps his trap shut. _I know that look,_ Dean thinks, suppressing a groan. _The absolute last thing I need is my little brother thinking I've got a crush on this dude. Never mind if he's right. Which he's totally not. At all._

“ _So._ ” Bobby is the next one to speak after an awkward silence. All eyes shift to him. “Yer brother and I were thinking a bonfire sounded like a good way to spend the night. Cas is invited, o' course.”

Dean glances over at Cas to judge his reaction. The guy's face is positively glowing with curiosity and excitement; Dean smiles at him, Sam's assumptions be damned.

“Sounds perfect. We got marshmallows?”

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Now that he thinks about it, flavor has got to be one of Cas's favorite things about humanity.

His first bite of a Hershey's chocolate bar is something akin to a spiritual experience; for this reason, he cannot be held responsible for the downright provocative moan that escapes his lips as the candy slowly melts on his tongue. It's smooth, coating the inside of his mouth, and it tastes like a prayer. Combined with the delightful heat radiating from the fire in front of him and the fresh, crisp October air surrounding him, it makes Cas feel more content than he has in a vastly long time. His eyes slip closed as he loses himself in the sweet, milky bliss dancing across his taste buds and the smoke wafting around him in small clouds. He finally understands why children are often moved to tears by their desire for candy bars in the grocery store.

Distantly, he hears Dean clear his throat from the lawn chair beside him. “Enjoying yourself, Cas?” he asks, his voice oddly strained.

“ _Immensely_ so.” Cas swallows and opens his eyes. “That was the first taste of chocolate I have ever had.”

No one says a word, shocked silence descending upon the four men like a shroud. Cas is about to clarify his statement when Dean simply takes a sip from the beer bottle in his hand, reaches down under his chair, and plops a package of candy bars in Cas's lap. “Knock yourself out,” the mechanic says solemnly. “You poor, deprived bastard.”

Cas hastily unwraps another bar and breaks off a chunk, shoving it into his mouth greedily. “I am hardly an illegitimate child, Dean,” he mumbles around his food, enjoying the way Dean chuckles at him. On impulse, the ex-Seraph breaks off another piece of chocolate and sets it on Dean's knee.

All Dean does is smile shyly and pick up the offering, nibbling on it sparingly between swigs of beer. Once again Cas feels the gazes of Sam and Bobby watching him and Dean from the other side of the low flames, and once again he ignores them. For some reason, the old man and the hunter have taken a great interest in Cas and Dean tonight, constantly and silently assessing them in some way from a distance. It's disturbing, and a bit troubling as well. Is Cas doing something wrong? Can they tell there's something different about him, something almost not human? Has he, after nine days of seemingly perfect integration, somehow given himself away?

No, that can't be it. Behind the befuddlement and curiosity in Sam and Bobby's eyes, there also lurks a strange giddiness, as if they are witnessing something both beautiful and amusing. And they aren't just focused on Cas, either—their gazes are equally trained on Dean. In fact, they seem the most enraptured when Dean laughs at something Cas says or when Dean explains a popular culture reference that Cas doesn't understand. They simply observe, taking pensive drinks from their own bottles at irregular intervals.

It isn't just Cas that they're seemingly fascinated by, nor is it just Dean—they're fascinated by Dean and Cas, together, interacting. Which is strange, because Bobby has witnessed much of this behavior already; Cas can't figure out why the bearded man would suddenly be so interested in it.

Perhaps this is a misinterpretation. There is nothing out-of-the-ordinary about Cas's behavior around Dean—they are almost-friends; is it so wrong for them to act as such?

Sam speaks up when he notices that Cas has almost finished his second bar of chocolate in half an hour: “C'mon, man—we haven't even broken out the marshmallows and grahams yet!”

A rectangular morsel freezes halfway to Cas's mouth. “Why would we need those? This chocolate seems sufficient all on its own.”

“Well, yeah, it is, but haven't you ever combined it with a toasted marshmallow?” Dean asks, absolute disbelief on his face. “There's no way—your ridiculous family didn't shelter you from fuckin' _s'mores,_ did they?”

Cas blinks. “What's a s'more?”

The response from his companions is immediate.

“Oh my God.”

“You ain't never had a—damn, son, what kind of life have you been livin'?”

“ _What?!_ You're kidding me. Dean, tell me he's kidding.”

“Oh...Oh my God.”

“That ain't possible. No way in Hell.”

“Oh. My. Effing. God.”

“I don't understand the reason for such shock!” Cas finally shouts, steadily growing more and more nervous with each incredulous outburst. “Are these s'mores a rite of passage of some sort? Are they necessary for survival?”

“Man, you don't even sound _human_ right now!” Dean exclaims. Cas feels a pang of panic in his gut until Dean laughs and leans over to grab a thin metal rod and a bag of plump white objects from the grass nearby. “C'mon, I'll teach you how to make one. You at least had a marshmallow before?”

The ex-angel shakes his head, hoping the worry constricting his bruised chest isn't showing too much in his eyes. “Is...that a bad thing?”

“No! No, it's just really unusual, that's all. 'M not mad or anything, just...really fuckin' surprised.” Dean extracts a white object from the plastic bag and sticks it on the end of the metal rod. He hands it to Cas with a small grin. “Here. Now hold the marshmallow over the fire— _not that close—_ yeah, right about there. And wait until it gets to be a nice golden brown—not too dark, but not too pale either.”

“I understand.”

After three burned marshmallows and two dropped in the ash at the bottom of the pit, Cas finally masters the art of s'more making and produces a perfectly toasted marshmallow with Dean's help. Dean assists him in transferring it from the rod to the graham cracker, then places the chocolate on top and squishes the whole thing together into a wonderfully sweet, sugary, caramel-y sandwich of sorts.

The first bite is like an explosion of sensation across Cas's tongue, and he finds himself hopelessly addicted to the taste.

For another hour, he and Dean create these incredible desserts together, laughing and chatting the whole time. Cas consumes at least five, not able to get enough. As delicious as these treats are, however, it doesn't take long for him to decide that this time with Dean—this carefree activity which seems to erase all evidence of stress and pain from the elder Winchester's face—is better than all the chocolate in the world.

All the while, Cas feels the scrutiny of Bobby and Sam watching their every move, but he can't bring himself to care.

Eventually, Dean's fingers are incredibly sticky and Cas is no longer hungry, so they stop. The shorter man sits back in his collapsible chair with a content “Thank you, Dean” on his sugary lips, utterly peaceful, and wonders if it's possible for God to disguise Himself as a food product. If it is, Cas is certain that He would choose a s'more.

“Don't mention it,” Dean replies as he cleans his hands with a moist paper towel. Once they're wiped off completely, he tosses the trash aside and pats Cas's forearm kindly. “Couldn't let you live another day without experiencing the joys of bonfire snacks.”

“I am glad you didn't,” Cas agrees with conviction. He looks over at Dean at the same instant Dean turns to face him, and their gazes lock.

For all his thoughts about Dean not being attracted in him, Cas can't deny the way those green eyes are burning into his own. There is definitely interest there that's more than platonic, and it's making heat unfurl in his lower stomach. He blinks slowly, and Dean blinks back. Cas's courage strengthens.

 _Perhaps he would not mind if I..._ The ex-angel leans in a fraction of an inch.

Dean looks like he wants to lean in too, but before he can, he coughs and casually sits back in his chair. Cas does the same, ignoring the stab of disappointment in his gut, and licks the last remnants of chocolate and marshmallow off his fingers. He hopes it's dark enough for his probably vibrant blush to be concealed.

“...Gorgeous night, ain't it?” Dean intones gruffly to no one in particular, sipping from his bottle again.

Sam's fire-lit face appears puzzled from the other side of the pit, but something like fondness is glinting in his eyes as he peers at his flustered brother. “Yeah, Dean, it is,” he replies with a small smile, and Bobby hums his agreement. The old man is also watching Dean with a strange warmth in his expression.

This doesn't go unnoticed by Dean. Cas watches as he looks up from the fire to meet his brother's and his surrogate father's eyes. “What?” he asks defensively. His body language is nonchalant, but the fingertips he’s rapping restlessly against the glass of his beer bottle betray his anxiety.

“Nothin’.” Bobby finishes the last of his own drink and stands up from his chair. There’s a glimmer in his eyes that isn’t a product of the firelight. “I’m headin’ in, boys. Got a client coming at nine tomorrow morning and I’d like to get more than six hours of sleep.” The lawn chair he’d been sitting in is folded up and hoisted onto his shoulder.

“Y’know what? I’m feeling pretty beat myself,” interjects Sam suddenly, and he gets up too. Cas watches as he struggles to collapse his own chair, then gives up and leaves it propped up beside the fire pit. “Yeah, uh, I’ve gotta rest up for the drive to Montana, so…’Night, you two!” He nods at the two remaining men a bit awkwardly before turning on his heel and shuffling behind Bobby back to the house.

Leaving Cas with Dean. In the dark. Beside a roaring bonfire. Under the stars. Alone.

They both stare at the chair Sam has just vacated, the only sounds around them the crackling of burning wood and the distant chirp of crickets. Cas fiddles with the hem of his shirt in his lap, trying to fight the urge to glance over at Dean for just a moment, just long enough to read his expression. He’s dying to know if he’d imagined the brief moment that had transpired between them minutes ago. If he hadn’t, then what exactly had it meant?

When he’d made his agreement with Raphael, there hadn’t been any specific qualifications laid out which his mate of choice had to meet—the only stipulation had to do with the intensity of the affection that person must feel for him. Does the gender of the person matter? Cas has known for a long time that Christians’ beliefs regarding God’s view on homosexuality are inaccurate, but perhaps Raphael intends for Cas to find a kind, caring woman. That is the supposed “default” choice of a human male, is it not? And it would certainly help him fit in more naturally…

Raphael had simply said that Cas had to find a powerful, strong love. Who that love came from shouldn’t—didn’t—matter at all, in Cas’s opinion. If he wants to try and find it with a man—with Dean—then he will.

Somehow, loving Dean doesn’t seem like too difficult a task. Cas ponders this for several seconds, and wonders if Dean would be open to the prospect of loving him back.

As he remembers the look in Dean’s eyes when they’d been so close in that dressing room—as he thinks back to Dean’s kindness to him over the past nine days—as he recalls the way Dean had gazed at him from inches away here in the firelight just minutes before—a seed of hope takes root in his heart, and he makes himself believe that it just might be possible.

An interjection from Dean spurs the ex-angel out of his contemplation: “So…usually around a fire, besides making s’mores, people tell stories. You got one?”

Cas turns to look at him. “You do not want to go inside with them?”

“Nah, it’s a perfect night—might be one of the last warm-ish ones of the year. Might as well take advantage of it, right?” Dean almost looks nervous, avoiding Cas’s eyes and peeling at the label on his half-empty bottle with weakly shaking fingers as he asks the rhetorical question.

 _Translation: He wants to spend more time with me here._ As new as he is to humanity, it isn’t difficult for Cas to interpret the true reason for Dean’s desire to remain at the fireside. _Perhaps it_ is _possible to pursue a further relationship with him._ “I suppose so,” he replies, leaning back in his chair and gazing up at the stars twinkling in the blackened sky hundreds of thousands of miles above their heads. The names of each one flit through his mind as he picks them out, squinting—he misses his angelic vision in this moment.

“Yeah.” Dean takes another swig of his beer, swallowing noisily. After a moment’s pause, he says again, “Story time. Go.”

“Oh! Uhm…” Storytelling has never been Cas’s strong suit. Any truly interesting tales he has are ones of Heaven, of battles won and lost, miracles witnessed. He doesn’t dare speak any of those. An awkward silence falls over the two men as Cas draws a blank.

“C’mon, tell me about your family or something,” Dean presses helpfully, gesturing with his drink. “I already know they’re crazy-ass conservative and mostly pretty douchey, but hey, there’s gotta be some redeeming quality for at least one of ‘em.” His vibrant eyes are wide and earnest, genuine curiosity flickering in them amidst the firelight, and Cas can’t resist.

“Only one of my siblings is in any way worthy of my affections still,” Cas admits after a second or two of contemplation. “Her name is Anna. She's quite short in stature, but her personality and beauty more than make up for it. She would always be supportive of me, even if she was the only one. I never thanked her for that.” Sudden guilt squeezes his throat shut for a moment, but he speaks through it. “I think she’s been the one I’ve missed the most since I’ve been away.”

“Hmm.” Dean nods in understanding. “She older or younger than you?”

“I am the youngest of all of them,” Cas explains. “Anna is roughly…ten years older than me.”

“No wonder I took a liking to you so fast, Cas,” Dean says with a grin. “My big brother senses kicked in, even though you’re technically older than me.” He bumps his shoulder against Cas’s nonchalantly. Loosened up somewhat by alcohol, Cas has found, Dean becomes more physical— _though he did not seem to want to show it in front of his family,_ he thinks. _Interesting_.

“My Father, he was— _is_ —amazing,” Cas goes on, ignoring the tightness in his own voice as he speaks about this particular figure in his life. “He’s kind, and generous, and wise. Even though He…left…many years ago, I know He’ll come back one day.” He feels a pang of something in his heart at the thought of those gentle hands and silver eyes that had looked upon him with such undying fondness and love all those centuries ago. “I cannot wait to see Him again,” he adds, quieter, more to himself than to his companion.

Dean is silent for nearly a full minute after Cas says this; the ex-Seraph wonders if he’s done something wrong, crossed some line that he hadn’t known about, like that first morning in the kitchen. Finally, Dean takes a drink and asks, “How can you be so sure?”

“Sure that He’ll be back? Well, He promised,” Cas says simply. “He always keeps His promises. I have faith that He will keep this one, as well.” If only his brothers and sisters would have the same faith.

Dean nods slowly, seemingly contemplating Cas’s words. “That’s pretty nice that you can believe what he tells you,” he says softly. “Wish I could’ve trusted my old man like that.”

If Cas’s ears had been able to physically perk up, he’s sure they would have after that statement. “You couldn’t?” he asks innocently, though he is eager to learn more about this man, this guarded almost-friend of his.

“Not really, no.” Dean’s eyes are fixed firmly on his dirty boots, and his face is drawn with something like regret. “He, uh…fuck, d’you really wanna hear this?”

“If you are not comfortable sharing it, I understand,” Cas assures him, “but you know I’d like to be your friend, and…friends tell each other these sorts of things, do they not?”

At this, Dean looks up at him, studying his face for a second or two. A small smile settles on his lips and he laughs a bit. “Yeah, they do.”

Cas’s breath catches in his throat. _Does this mean we’re…?_

But he doesn’t have time to finish the thought, let alone voice it, because Dean is continuing.

“Yeah, I had a father growing up,” the mechanic begins simply. “That's it. My mom died in a house fire when I was four and Sammy wasn't even six months. You'd think my dad would take insanely good care of us, try to be a mom _and_ a dad to compensate, right?”

Cas nods.

“Well, he didn't. He was possessed by this idea that God had used that fire to kill my mom, his wife, and the only way he could get back at Him was to hurt Him in some way. He did that by hunting. He'd disappear for days, sometimes weeks at a time, to go out and kill deer and bears and fucking _ducks,_ and he'd leave me and my brother alone in crappy motel rooms and shacks on the side of the road in whatever city we happened to run outta gas in.” A haunted fog clouds Dean's eyes as he seems to re-live years of awful experiences in mere moments. Cas feels a pang of sympathy for him and resists the urge to rest a grounding hand on the other man's shoulder. “I took care of Sam like I was his father, not his brother, 'cuz whenever Dad _was_ around us, he'd either be too angry or too drunk to function. He'd pass out on the couch and I'd cook Sam dinner, and if I didn’t leave enough for Dad, he'd wake up real pissed and he'd...I-I mean, I've got scars from...fuck.”

Dean's voice breaks and he has to stop for a few seconds, running trembling fingers through his spiked hair. He gives a quaking sigh and this time, Cas does reach out and touch.

“Move on,” he murmurs, and he doesn't just mean with the story. He gives the arm in his grasp a squeeze. Dean's eyes meet his, and the eye contact they share is far from awkward now.2

Eventually, Dean continues: “Long story short, he was my dad, but he sure as hell didn't act like it.”

“Clearly.”

“Then, we met Bobby.” A small smile tugs at the corners of the younger man's mouth and Cas breathes an internal sigh of relief. “He and Dad ran into each other on a hunt in South Dakota and somehow became friends, and he started sticking around with us. He would take care of me and Sam when Dad went out; he'd play catch with us behind the motels and bring us to local parks; he'd give us piggyback rides. He was more of a father to us than John Winchester ever was. He still is. And he taught us that family doesn't end with blood.”

This puzzles Cas a bit. “Meaning...?”

“It means that just 'cuz someone shares your DNA, that doesn't make them your family,” Dean explains. “And just 'cuz someone _doesn't_ share your DNA, that doesn't mean they can't _become_ your family. It's how they treat you that matters.” He gives Cas's hand on his arm a light pat and grins at him meaningfully; Cas knows that he isn’t just speaking for himself anymore. “Find the people who'll take you as you are, no questions asked; who'll stick by you through thick and thin and never leave you to fend for yourself when you need help. Those people are your real family, no matter who they're related to.”

Silence envelops the space as Cas stares in awe at the incredible man before him. How a person could go through such awful trials and still come out of them so strong and kind and full of wisdom is beyond his comprehension. _And to think Ezekiel didn't believe humans to be worth a feather from his wings._

“Thank you, Dean,” he all but whispers, and he hopes the sincerity he’s feeling in the pit of his stomach is adequately relayed through his eyes and voice.

It must be, because Dean’s smile steadies and he says, “You’re welcome, Cas.”

Once again, there is the potential for a tender, borderline romantic moment between them, and Cas’s pulse accelerates incrementally the longer he gazes at Dean’s freckled face. He wants so badly to try and lean in again, to bridge the distance that he has only just become so aware of between them, but he settles for grasping Dean’s hand and giving it a brief, firm squeeze. To his surprise, Dean squeezes back warmly, then releases. And once again, just as quickly as it had begun, the moment ends.

Dean lounges back comfortably in his chair, taking a deep breath and letting it slowly out. “Yeah, man, my dad was definitely a character,” he says, more amusement than sadness in his tone now. “If he’d been here a week ago, fuck, I’d’ve been killed so fast for what I did to his car.”

 _The crash. The blood. The healing._ Everything comes rushing back to Cas in a sudden wave. His stomach twists at the memory of what Dean had looked like in the minutes immediately following the accident, lying there broken and bloody in a mess of dirt and fragments of glass. He tries to keep his voice neutral as he asks, “Did you damage it in some way?”

“Oh, hell yeah. The thing’s completely totaled. Wrecked it a couple days before you showed up, actually—drunk driver got me on the county road a few miles that way.” Dean motions to the north with his arm. A confused expression comes over his face. “Yeah, that was a weird night, apparently.”

Though he already knows, Cas inquires, “How so?”

“Well, the guy in the other car—the drunk—he was killed instantly. The collision was pretty fuckin’ nasty, man. Only me…I somehow got out of it without a scratch on me. Sammy said the EMTs found me at the side of the road in ripped-up clothes, fast asleep, like I’d just decided to take a nap next to my demolished car.” Dean shakes his head incredulously. “I got released from the hospital the next morning. Me, Sam, and Bobby ‘celebrated’ with booze and shitty old movies that night, and an hour or so after we went to sleep, you showed up.”

“That is…very strange.” A small thread of guilt worms its way into Cas’s heart at the now-obvious way he’d inconvenienced this man and his family, at such an inopportune time. He resists the urge to apologize and asks instead, thinking he knows the answer already, “Do you remember anything else from that night?”

“Yeah, actually.”

Cas freezes, and he swears his heart stops beating altogether. _What?_ He’d made sure to erase every moment of pain, of fear and panic, from Dean’s mind when he’d put the injured man to sleep after healing him. He _knows_ he did. _What if he remembers—?_

“It’s really fuzzy, but I just—I think I must’ve woken up before passing out there at the side of the road, because I saw…” Dean squints a little as he seemingly struggles to recall a specific detail from the recesses of his mind. “…I saw a pair of eyes.”

Cas can’t breathe. “Eyes?” _Impossible…_

“Yeah. Eyes. The eyes of the person who saved me—still don’t know who it was.” Something like wonder falls over Dean’s face then. “Those eyes were insane—felt like they could see right through me. They were blue, but—but not just any blue. I mean, they were _blue._ Like…Like, you know when you walk outside for the first time on the first day of December, when the temperature’s just barely above fifteen degrees and you can’t see anything but snow or feel anything but real, crisp cold? A-And you know you shouldn’t like it, but for some reason you close your eyes and tilt your head back and take a deep, almost painful breath. That feeling in your chest—that sharp jolt you get as the cold air rushes into your lungs—if you could turn that feeling into a color, and maybe darken it just a little…that’s the color of those eyes. They were just…incredible. I hope…I hope I get to see them again someday.”

The awe in Dean’s voice, on his face—the sheer adoration he’s expressing for the eyes he’d seen that night, _Castiel’s eyes,_ the eyes that have been called nothing but “unnatural” and “abominable” for three millenia—it breaks Cas.

Those same eyes, gray now but fundamentally unchanged, fill with saline in a matter of seconds, the feeling both shocking and embarrassing to the man experiencing it for the first time. Cas sucks in a shuddering breath and blinks once, twice, and he reaches up to touch his own face as he feels tears tracking slowly down his cheeks. _I’m…crying._ It’s suddenly very difficult to breathe through his nose, and instinctually, he sniffs. The sound is loud and wet, and it makes Dean turn.

“Wh—? Cas, you okay?”

“I-I…I don’t know,” the ex-angel replies, bewildered. He suddenly feels as though he has to get away from here, away from Dean, or he’ll start crying even harder. A breath leaves his mouth in a short sob as he chokes out, “I’m s-sorry; I should—”

On shaking legs, Cas stands up from his lawn chair and hurriedly walks to the Singer house on the other side of the junkyard, stumbling through the front door and making a beeline for the staircase. He ignores the confused voices of Bobby and Sam in the living room as he hurries up the steps and walks into the nearest room—Dean’s.

Cas stands just inside the doorway for a long moment, sniffing and hiccupping, his overflowing eyes staring at nothing in particular. He wanders aimlessly into the room and hesitates a moment before collapsing limply onto Dean’s bed, burying his face in the pillow that smells of the other man’s skin. Somehow that scent causes a new influx of tears to surge out of Cas’s eyes and he starts sobbing quietly into the soft fabric.

Dean had called his blue eyes “incredible.” He’d complemented them, _praised_ them, even. He’d been the first one to do so since God himself had gazed upon them for the first time. Cas had never thought he’d ever meet anyone who thought of his eyes as anything but disdainful. But tonight, here, with this human man he finds himself caring for more and more as the days pass, he’s been proven wrong.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and coughs a little, not sure how to stop his crying, and slips his arms under Dean’s pillow to press it more firmly against his face. In the process, his fingers brush against something prickly and soft and achingly familiar, and he freezes.

It can’t be. Tentative, he wraps his hand around the object and pulls it out into the dim light of the room.

It is.

It’s the feather that Cas had left on Dean’s chest the night they’d unofficially met. The ex-Seraph gasps and runs his fingertips reverently down the soft black barbs of his own plumage, the last of it, in fact. As he tilts it in his hand, it glints with the entire spectrum of color, just as he remembers. A sudden pang of nostalgia hits him and, for the first time since Raphael had sent him here, he misses his wings.

Another flood of emotion washes over Cas as he realizes that Dean has kept this gift under his pillow ever since he received it. Perhaps he found it beautiful, as well. Something about that knowledge hastens the flow of tears once again, and Cas clutches the feather to his chest as he cries, hoarse, embarrassing noises forcing themselves out of his mouth. He really hopes Dean doesn’t—

“Cas?”

Immediately, Cas gasps and sits up on the bed, avoiding his almost-friend’s gaze. “I…” He hastily swipes his flannel sleeve over his swollen face and sniffs hard.

The sound of Dean’s boots against the hardwood floor as he approaches prompts Cas to look up from his own lap. The mechanic appears greatly concerned for the other man’s wellbeing, and he voices this concern almost as soon as Cas recognizes it. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he asks quietly, crouching down so that his emerald eyes are level with Cas’s grey ones.

Cas can only stare at him, the weight of everything he’s discovered in the last ten minutes forcing him into silence. He feels like he’s looking at a different Dean than the one he’s befriended over these past nine days, one that is outwardly gruff and somewhat detached from emotion but actually complex and sensitive and… _warm._ This Dean is warm, full of love—so much love that it’s almost a tragedy he hasn’t been able to give it away to anyone outside of his family yet without being hurt.

Perhaps Cas could be the one to finally change that. Somehow, that possibility doesn’t seem too lofty an aspiration anymore.

The ex-angel only notices he hasn’t responded to Dean’s question when it’s asked again. “I-I am fine,” he responds with a small cough. “I do not know why that happened, nor why I decided to come to this room.”

“Can’t really control where your feet take you when you’re crying as hard as you were.” Dean is trying to make light of the situation, but the worry still saturating his green gaze betrays him. Then he notices the dark object in Cas’s hand. “I see you found my feather.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, it was under your pillow and I happened to find it when I—”

“Don’t worry about it, man.” He gently takes it from Cas and turns it over in his own hands, watching the barbs change color just as Cas had done not a minute before. “Y’know, I had this in my hand when the paramedics found me after that crash.”

“Yes, I—oh, I mean, really?”

“Mmhmm.” Dean looks at it with such tenderness and adoration that Cas almost starts weeping again. “Still don’t know what bird it’s from, but it’s fuckin’ beautiful, ain’t it?”

Cas smiles, hoping his lips don’t tremble too badly. “Yes, it is.”

Dean grins back and reaches over Cas’s lap to tuck the feather back under his pillow. “If Sam knew I slept with this thing here, he’d never let me live it down.”

“Why are you so attached to it?” Cas asks, genuinely curious.

At this, Dean just shrugs and shakes his head with a sheepish smile. “No idea. I just…like it, for some reason. Don’t really understand it.”

Cas nods. His tears are finally ceasing to flow, and he dries his eyes one more time with his sleeve. “I apologize for my sudden, er, ‘episode.’ I honestly do not know what came over me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean reassures him with a kind hand on his shoulder. Cas revels in the contact. “It’s happened to me too.”

They stare at each other for several seconds, both men giving and receiving comfort on different levels, for different reasons. Cas wants to ask something of Dean, something rather personal—he’s seen humans expressing their affection for each other in different ways, and while a kiss may be what he truly wants to give, he knows of an alternate that seems sufficient—and more appropriate, perhaps—in this situation.

Swallowing thickly and sniffing one last time, he asks quietly, “Dean…may I…hug you?”

Dean’s face softens even further, the warmth in his eyes unparalleled. His smile widens slightly, causing the corners of those jade orbs to crinkle and his white teeth to peek out from behind his plush lips. “Sure, Cas.” He leans forwards and his strong arms come up to encircle Cas’s still lightly trembling form, and Cas reaches out to embrace him in return.

Then he melts.

Cas has never hugged anyone before. Angels aren’t wired for soft, affectionate touches, nor do they depend on physical contact for comfort. Prayer usually fulfills that need. In some ways, Cas supposes, the serenity that washes over an angel in the midst of that sacred practice is much like an embrace.

But what he is feeling right now cannot compare to even that.

This isn’t like the dressing room, when they’d been pressed together but hesitant. It’s…more. It feels to Cas as though Dean has wrapped him up in more than just his arms—surely flesh and bone cannot be so powerful as to completely override any and all sensation in one’s body. Whatever Cas is feeling in this moment cannot be compared to even the sweetest, most devout prayer he has ever spoken. His own heart is beating in time with Dean’s, synchronized where their chests are touching, and Dean’s skin is radiating a warmth and tenderness that cannot be described aptly given the limitations of language. Dean shifts minutely closer on the bed, and Cas meets him, burying his own face in the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder and closing his eyes. Inhaling the warm, heady scent of this kind man in his arms, Cas loses himself, and he finds that he never wants this moment to end. His brain sends signals to his arms to loosen their grip, but they do the opposite, clinging to Dean in near desperation. Blunt fingernails dig into Dean’s back and shaking fists bunch the soft fabric of his flannel shirt against Cas’s will, but he doesn’t stop them. He can’t let go. He doesn’t want to.

Some kind of unspoken need must relay from Cas’s quivering body to Dean’s sturdy, supportive one, because he doesn’t loosen his arms either. He keeps holding Cas just as tightly as the ex-Seraph is holding him. A flood of gratitude sweeps through Cas and he feels his closed eyes starting to sting again. Huffing out a breath into Dean’s musky skin, Cas sends up a wordless prayer of thanks to his Father for creating this incredible creature.

Their embrace lasts for a good minute or so before Cas reluctantly pulls back, afraid of overstepping those “personal space” boundaries Dean had mentioned on one of their first days together. He feels cared for, for the first time in millennia as he gazes into Dean’s grassy eyes, so close to his own. The flush rising in his cheeks is probably quite prominent, but he can’t bring himself to care. For a lack of anything better to say, he simply murmurs, “Thank you, Dean. 

“’Course, Cas,” the mechanic replies. Then, after a moment of brief hesitation, he adds with a small grin, “That’s what friends do.”

They are finally friends. At that thought, Cas’s heart sprouts wings and nearly flies out of his chest. He smiles broadly, his earlier tears forgotten, and says, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

They sit there, smiling at one another, and Cas almost works up the courage to try for a kiss again—he’s more confident now that Dean would accept it—when the younger man yawns long and loud. “Fuck, man, I’m exhausted,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. “Think I’m gonna hit the sack. Where you sleepin’ tonight?”

“Uh…” Cas usually has to choose between the couch and Dean’s bed, and even though he’s felt obligated to choose the couch for every night since his ribs have stopped throbbing constantly, Dean still asks, is still willing to sleep in discomfort if it means giving Cas even a mote of the opposite. _Big brother instincts._ “I’ll take the couch again.”

“You sure?” Another expected inquiry. “’S not the comfiest thing in the world; trust me, I know.”

“I’ve become accustomed to it, do not worry,” assures Cas.

“Friends don’t let friends wake up with a kink in their neck, Cas. You can take the bed tonight if you really want it.”

“But what about you?” _I do not want to distance myself from you quite yet._ “You should not have to sleep on the couch simply because I’m vacating it.”

Dean gestures to the blankets and pillow that are still bundled on the dusty hardwood floor beside the bed from the first night they’d been brought here. “I can stay right there if you want me to.”

Afraid he might just offer Dean the other half of this king-sized bed, Cas agrees to this plan quickly. He and Dean both change into comfortable sleepwear and turn out the light in the room just as the living room downstairs goes dark. Moonlight floods in from the large window in the far wall and slants dimly through the darkened room. Cas stares out and counts the stars tiredly, thinking that no matter how many there are in that ethereal sky, Dean’s eyes sparkle enough to outshine them all.

Moments before he sinks into sleep, Cas hears Dean sigh heavily and mutter to himself, “Hope I don’t get any alcohol nightmares t’night.”

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Cas whispers, rolling over to look down at him in the dark. He yawns and drops his head back on his pillow. “I’ll…watch over you.”

Silence. A sharp inhale. “What’d you say?”

“Said I’ll watch over you,” Cas repeats, eyes slipping closed. “Make sure the nightmares stay away.” He knows this is impossible, of course, but it seems like the right thing to say in this instance.

After a pregnant pause, Dean finally says in a lightly wavering voice, “Thanks, Cas.”

“Mmhmm.”

The ex-angel is asleep with his next breath, feeling more content than he has in three thousand years.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

“No. _No!”_

Raphael’s electric wings lash out at his sides, filling the entire chamber around him with a sizzling indigo light for a brief moment. He stares into the basin of Holy Water through which he’s been observing Castiel, his hapless-but-skilled potential recruit, and angrily slaps his hand across the shimmering surface, shattering the dark image portrayed there.

It has all been going so well. Castiel has not come in contact with a woman in the entire ten days he has been trapped on Earth in his human form, and Raphael had assumed that this was a guarantee of failure. But, of _course,_ being the champion of the unexpected and rebellious, Castiel has shown himself in the past twenty-four Earth hours to be decidedly attracted to males—specifically, one male: Dean Winchester, the mortal that Raphael himself had been stupid enough to send him to.

He should have guessed, should have been prepared for a turn of events such as this. The way Castiel feels about this Dean has been obvious since their last conversation, though at the time Raphael had interpreted the strong affection as simply that: affection, attachment to a symbol of the species the blue-eyed angel has grown so deeply fond of. But no—Raphael can see it now. This once-innocent “affection” is morphing dangerously quickly into love. And what’s worse, it seems to be _requited!_ What are the chances of Castiel befriending the one man in all of Lawrence, Kansas, who is interested in both women a _nd_ men; the one man who loves just as easily and whole-heartedly as Castiel does? Why hadn’t Raphael been able to infer that about Dean Winchester from the beginning?

Now his hopes are crashing down to Earth alongside their source: the most skilled celestial soldier Raphael has ever beheld. He is _losing_ Castiel. To a gruff, insignificant, weak, mortal man. The thought of that wasted potential makes the Archangel’s lightning wings arc with fury.

There is only one way to stop this “relationship” that those two human men have developed: remove one of them.

Contrary to the rumors spread around the Heavens, Raphael does not feel joy from killing. He only does it because it is absolutely necessary, because there is no other possible alternative that could allow his desired outcome to be reached. Yes, he and his Rebel army kill Loyalist angels by the hundreds in battle, but their deaths are necessary to send a clear, concise message: Eventually, they will lose.

This situation is no different. Raphael has a goal, and in order to reach it, he must take a life.

With a stoic snap of his fingers, the elder angel summons two of his most trusted garrison leaders. They appear behind him in a rush of wind and feathers, still clothed in gleaming and bloodied armor from the battle they have just won. Raphael’s crest—a series of blue lightning bolts shaped into a pair of wings, surrounding a golden crown—is emblazoned on their breastplates; their superior cannot hide the smirk of pride that briefly crosses his face at the sight of it.

“Theodore. Malachi.”

“Yes sir,” the two bearded Seraphs reply in unison, cold, unquestioning loyalty smoldering in their golden eyes.

“I know this is an unusual request, but believe me when I tell you that I do not make it lightly.” Raphael approaches them, the heels of his polished white shoes clicking on the stone floor beneath them. He folds his hands behind his back as he speaks, meeting both of their gazes in turn. “I need the two of you to take a short respite from this place and carry out a task for me—it should be rather simple.”

“Name it and it will be done, sir,” Theodore says with a nod of his head. The dim light of the room catches on the ragged scar that stretches across his face, from above his left eye to just below his right ear. 

Raphael smiles at the certainty in that deep, steady voice, and relays his orders.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part V up this week Friday :) then one more, then epilogue! we're nearing the end, folks


	6. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more part to go after this one, then the epilogue! this one's slightly shorter than the other parts, i think, but only by about one thousand words. still hope you like! thanks for reading :)
> 
> EDIT: THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED TOMORROW, THE 10TH OF DECEMBER. sorry for the delay, guys--i've had final exams to study for and papers to write, so this has been pushed to the backburner for about a week. BUT, it's wrapping up, and will be posted ON THE 10TH. I PROMISE. If it isn't, feel free to send me hate both here and on tumblr.

_Moods that take me_

_And erase me_

_And I’m painted black…_

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Having a person he can call his “friend”—one who he’s pretty sure isn’t gonna stab him in the back somehow—is a new and surprisingly pleasant experience for Dean.

He and Cas are now pretty much inseparable. Sam had left for the Montana hunt the morning after their bonfire, but not before handing out three hugs. Bobby had patted him gruffly but affectionately on the back; Dean had melted into his familiar frame; and Cas had looked equally pleased and terrified as the larger man enveloped him in an embrace. Dean wishes now that he’d been able to snap a photo of Cas’s conflicted expression as the grey-eyed man had hooked his chin over one of Sam’s broad shoulders.

When questioned about it later, Cas had explained, “He is just too large. I feel dwarfed beside him. You, on the other hand, are the perfect size for hugging, Dean.”

It takes a few hours for the smile to leave Dean’s face after hearing that.

Cas is getting better every day—he has a great belly laugh that he hadn’t been able to show off when his ribs were still too sore; his mended ankle apparently allows him to nearly beat Dean in a footrace from one end of Bobby’s yard to the other; and he seems to be developing social skills that he hadn’t had before: Dean takes him to the grocery store the morning after the bonfire and loses him in the aisles, only to find him with a woman in a purple dress, deep in a conversation about spices. He attributes the quick pang of jealousy he feels at the sight of them together to nervousness—he hadn’t known where Cas was for a good five minutes—but he remembers the encounter for days afterward.

Dean’s no idiot. He’s a connoisseur in the romantic arts. He’d recognized the few moments when Cas had wanted to kiss him—by the bonfire he’d even leaned in a little—but, being the coward that he is, Dean is too afraid to pursue the matter. Yeah, he’d known Cas had wanted to kiss him. And late at night, after a few shots, he’s able to admit that he’d wanted to kiss Cas, too.

It’s just that…Cas still seems like a grown kid to Dean. So trusting and curious and enthusiastic about the smallest things, like the color of a weed flower in the engine bay of a rusty beater or the way the sun shines perfectly into the kitchen around 3:30 p.m. to make the entire room glow. Cas is at least five years older than Dean, and he’s still more of a kid than Dean ever got to be.

But then there’s moments when Cas is emerging wet-haired from the steamy bathroom after a hot shower, lightly tanned skin glistening with moisture, towel hanging low around his hips, and Dean swears he’s never seen a more attractive human being in his entire life. He’s a little ashamed to admit that he’s pressed his ear to the door a few times while Cas was showering, listening for any “suggestive” sounds. So far, he’s heard none. Bummer.

In summation: Cas is sweet and kind and intelligent (if not socially adept) and thoughtful and honest and loyal and just a little immature, and he’s got a fucking amazing body to match his gigantic…heart. He’s pretty much everything Dean has ever looked for in a partner—apart from the “immature” aspect—but for some reason he can’t seem grow the balls to fuckin’ ask the guy out on an ice cream date or something. It’s really frustrating—if Cas were a woman, they’d have been sleeping together for at least a week now.

There’s just something about this dynamic between them that Dean has grown to cherish more than any other he’s ever experienced—besides that with his brother—and the thought of ruining it is terrifying in a way that startles him. Something about Cas, about the way Cas makes him feel, is special, and the thought of tainting it with a failed one-night-stand leaves Dean with an aching heart and a bad taste in his mouth. The thought of losing those easy smiles, that fond look in those grey eyes, this unspoken bond that has somehow formed between them…it’s too painful to consider, and the weird part is Dean has no real idea why.

One night last week had really solidified their bond, Dean thinks. They’d driven to Dean’s favorite field on the edge of town and watched the sunset from the hood of the Challenger. It’d been a few weeks since Dean had done this, and he hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed it until the first streaks of orange and red had appeared in the sky. A smile had stretched broadly across his face and he’d taken a sip of his beer, not even feeling the chilly late-October breeze as it swept over him.

At one point, he’d looked over at Cas to see if he was enjoying it as much as Dean was. To Dean’s surprise, the grey-eyed man hadn’t been watching the sky at all—he’d had his gaze fixed on Dean’s face even before Dean’s head had turned. There was an almost blissful expression on Cas’s face, a small, contented smile, as he’d met Dean’s eyes.

“The sky is very beautiful,” he’d murmured in his low, gravelly voice, “but I prefer to watch it in your eyes. The green accentuates every shade.”

Never before had Dean blushed so quickly and so violently in his life. He’d cleared his throat noisily and looked down at the bottle in his hands, suddenly bashful. “You, uh…you like my eyes, Cas?” he’d asked.

“Very much,” had been the earnest reply.

Why Dean hadn’t leaned over and kissed the guy right then and there is a mystery that will never be solved in this current century. Dean’s nerves had completely taken over his body and he’d spent the rest of their outing hiding his smile behind his beer bottle and blaming the flush in his cheeks on the alcohol. He was such a fucking wimp.

Since that night, things have been even more comfortable between the two of them, and Dean still marvels every day at how close they’ve become in such a short amount of time. Cas is just some random homeless guy that showed up on Bobby’s stoop, and they took him in out of pity. That’s all it is—or, that’s all it was supposed to be. It’s more now. And if he’s honest with himself, Dean prefers it this way. The thought of Cas ever leaving Bobby’s place to return to Florida or whatever…it makes Dean feel almost sick.

Here, watching the last episode of _Firefly_ on Bobby’s couch with Cas sitting next to him, Dean is utterly content for the first time in ages. The older man is making his way (messily) through a large bowl of popcorn, the first helping of the stuff he’s ever had, and Dean is laughing with (at) him and throwing puffy kernels at his head. They’re completely ignoring the show, but neither of them really notice or care.

In an unwelcome burst of noise, Bobby’s voice booms from the kitchen behind them: “Will you two take a break from yer food fight an’ do some work around this house for a change? Pantry’s runnin’ low, and I ain’t the one who’s been eatin’ everything.”

Dean sighs and eats the fistful of popcorn he was about to crush into Cas’s hair. “You want me to go shopping?”

“Lookit that, he’s learning verbal cues! Someone get this boy a gold star!” Dean rolls his eyes. “And make a run to the hardware store too, will ya? I need another floor jack.”

Another sigh. “Fine,” Dean says irritably and gets up from the couch, brushing bits of snack food off his lap. He turns to Cas. “I’m gonna run out. Shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you stay and help the old man—”

“I heard that!”

“—clean up around here? Y’know, dust and shit.”

Cas nods. “Very well. We can finish this episode another time.” He reaches for the remote on the coffee table and shuts off the TV. As he stands, he says, “Could you purchase some more of those strawberry toaster pastries? Oh, and more popcorn?”

“Floor jack, Pop-Tarts, and Orville Redenbacher’s. Got it.” Dean grins and walks over to the coat rack in the corner of the living room. Before he can put on his leather jacket, Cas appears behind him and envelops him in a hug.

“Drive safely, Dean,” the stormy-eyed man murmurs with more solemnity than is strictly necessary, as if he genuinely expects Dean to meet with some kind of demise the instant they separate.

Dean smiles into Cas’s hair and pats him on the back. These goodbye hugs have become a common occurrence since the first one over a week ago, so he’s used to it by now. They’re nice—Dean feels warm and protected when he’s cocooned in Cas’s arms. “I will,” he promises, then pulls back slowly, reluctant to put an end to their contact. “Should be back in an hour.”

“I will be waiting,” Cas says.

“You…do that.” The warm feeling that spreads through his chest at those words makes Dean drop his gaze from Cas’s. He slips on his jacket and pulls the keys for the Challenger out of his pocket. “See ya.”

On the drive to the nearest grocer’s, Dean is alone with the rumbling of a vintage V8 and the quieter hum of his own thoughts. As they have for the past several hours, they turn to the four words Cas had whispered to him the night of the bonfire: _“I’ll watch over you.”_ Despite the sleep-thickened voice they’d been spoken in, there had been nothing but conviction and determination in the tone. They had been a promise, a vow, and Dean feels anything but worthy of it.

That’s not to mention the wording, which is practically verbatim of the phrase his mother used to say to him every night as a child: _“Angels are watching over you.”_ Everything that’s happened in the past month—the car accident, the eyes, the feather, meeting Cas—seems to somehow all relate to that old promise from his childhood. Dean still doesn’t know how to explain getting out of that crash alive, nor can he explain the blue eyes he’d seen that night or the strange feather he’d been grasping that doesn’t seem to belong to any bird in this area of the United States, or anywhere, for that matter. The first explanation he’d come up with, when he was still sitting in that hospital room with Sam, was _angels._ He’d dismissed it immediately, thinking it completely absurd, but now that he considers all this in context…it honestly doesn’t seem too impossible.

Well, then. If angels really are involved, how does Cas fit in? This homeless man with no social skills, no knowledge of any pop culture, and a large, religiously devout family that he doesn’t seem to like talking about, had shown up the night after the car accident, completely out of nowhere. And he’d called Dean by name the instant their eyes had met! No matter what excuses Cas had given for that strange occurrence, Dean still finds it perplexing.

Do angels exist? Had an angel saved him from being killed in the crushed Impala? _Could Cas be…?_

No. Fuck no. Absolutely not. He’d hallucinated those eyes, that feather is probably from some nocturnal, creepy-ass owl that no one ever sees in daylight, and Cas…Cas is just a sheltered, homeschooled kid who’s grown up without any real-world exposure. As for what he’d said that night, well…he was just trying to comfort Dean and reassure him that he wouldn’t have any nightmares (which he hadn’t, actually). Cas doesn’t know about Dean’s mother, doesn’t know about the stories she used to tell Dean. There’s no way he’d been quoting her.

So there. The end. No more need to think about it.

But even as Dean pulls up to the small grocery store and shuts the car off, he knows he’s gonna be thinking about it for awhile.

He enters the store through the automatic doors and grabs a cart, feeling more domestic than he has in a long time. Building a mental list of needed items, he sets off towards the breakfast aisle, pointedly ignoring the annoying squeak of the front left wheel of his cart. Grocery shopping is boring when you’re alone, and Dean suddenly wishes he’d asked Cas to come with him. Then again, without a goodbye there wouldn’t have been a goodbye hug, so Dean figures he can put up with some tedium if it means getting to hold Cas in his arms for a few seconds.

Come to think of it, Dean would do a lot more than go shopping to earn one of his new friend’s hugs. It might be a developing addiction.

Oh, well—better than being an alcoholic, right?

Wait. He _is_ an alcoholic. Fuck. Well, then, it’s better than being a cokehead.

Dean picks up Cheerios, Wheaties, Cinnamon Toast Crunch (because Cas has developed a taste for it), and a box of strawberry Pop Tarts in this aisle, then moves to the snack aisle next to it. Popcorn is the next item to be dropped in his cart, then a bag of Lay’s, a box of sugar cookies, and some Ritz crackers. He’s considering a box of fruit snacks—yet another preferred food of his grey-eyed friend—when a brief, metallic glint of light in his periphery catches his eye.

Almost imperceptibly, Dean turns his head to the right to look again. There’s a dark-haired bearded man standing at the end of the aisle without a cart, pretending to look at the products lining the shelf in front of him. He has a sort of modern-Attila-the-Hun vibe, and there’s some kind of strange energy like static electricity pouring off him in waves. Sure enough, tucked into one of his belt loops, partially obscured by his crisp black leather jacket, is a pointed chrome dagger of some kind—too long to be a knife, too short to be a sword. The man’s right hand is tucked casually into his pocket, but Dean can see the way his fingers twitch habitually towards the handle of the strange weapon every few seconds. The tension in his entire body is plainly visible, like he’s expecting a fight.

He doesn’t seem to be causing any trouble right now, though, so Dean just goes back to his shopping. He drops the fruit snacks in his cart and heads towards the granola bars a few feet away.

Just as he’s about to pick up a box, Dean feels a freakishly strong hand curl around his bicep and something cold and sharp presses against the tender skin of his throat. He freezes, and a low, rumbling voice whispers in his ear, “Come with me, Dean Winchester. Do not struggle, or this will be over sooner than I like.”

The crackling energy surrounding this strange man makes Dean’s stomach turn even more in this close proximity. He doesn’t dare ask how this guy knows his name as he abandons his cart and goes without complaint. The stranger brings him to the very back of the store, which has been strangely vacated in the last minute or so, and shoves him through the _Employees Only_ exit. They end up in the alley behind the building, and Dean catches sight of another big guy with the same chrome blade his captor is wielding. He’s also wearing a dark leather jacket, but unlike his counterpart, he has a massive scar stretching across his face. There is nothing but cold determination in his eyes, which are a striking shade of gold.

Scarface smiles wickedly. “So this is he?”

“Yes.” Knife Guy shoves Dean forward a few feet, tightening his grip on Dean’s arm. The mechanic winces. “He does not look like much, I do admit, but he is the correct man.”

“Good work, Malachi.”

Dean has no idea what the hell is going on here, but he does know one thing: he’s gonna have to fight his way out of this, and judging from the strength of Malachi’s hand alone, it ain’t gonna be easy. Now Dean doesn’t go out looking for confrontation, but he’s been known to hold his own in the local bars and the alleys behind them. His father had taught him and Sam how to fight as children so they’d be able to defend themselves if anyone ever tried to break into whatever shack or hotel room they were staying in during that given week. As they’d gotten older, they’d expanded on their skills, and now both of them are pretty damn dangerous when pissed off.

Dean isn’t exactly pissed off right now, but he is cornered, which will probably make him more lethal than usual.

“Okay, okay, listen guys,” he says, barely succeeding in keeping the nervous warble out of his voice. He holds up his hands innocently when he feels the knife at his throat press down a little harder. “I don’t know who the fuck you are or how you know who I am, but whatever I did to make you wanna kill me, I promise it won’t happen again.” _Probably slept with one of their sisters or something. Or a wife. That always turns out well._

“It is nothing you have done yet, Dean,” Malachi says, his own gold eyes flashing with contempt, “but rather something you are currently in the process of doing.”

“What, grocery shopping?” Wrong answer. In a flash, Scarface is right in front of Dean and he lands a brutal punch to Dean’s stomach. The green-eyed man cries out and doubles over, gasping for breath. The blade remains against his neck.

“You are corrupting one of our own!” Scarface snarls, the fury burning in his eyes practically making them glow. “Changing him, toying with his mind, s _educing_ him—”

“Theo!” Malachi cuts him off with a booming shout. “You have said too much! Silence!”

As the oxygen flows back into Dean’s brain, he considers what these two are saying. Who do they think he’s “corrupting”? What do they even mean by that? Coughing, he manages to say “I dunno what you’re talking about” before he’s cut off by Theo’s fist slamming into his cheekbone and a firm kick to his ribcage. It feels like a fucking freight train hitting him. His head spins for several seconds and the bitter tang of copper and iron floods onto his tongue; a glob of blood and saliva sprays from his mouth as he spits onto the pavement.

“Silence, worm!” Theo bellows. He grabs Dean’s chin roughly and forces his head up. Their eyes meet. Dean sees nothing but empty rage in the other man’s. “It does not matter whether or not you realize you are doing it, only that you are. And you must pay.” He raises his fist again, preparing another blow.

_That’s my cue._

Quickly, Dean straightens from his hunched-over position and whirls around to face Malachi behind him. He lands a solid uppercut to the bearded man’s jaw and knees him in the gut, briefly stunning him long enough to wrench the blade out of his hand. He grips it tightly in his own fist and spins again, knocking Theo in the temple with it. The larger man stumbles back a few paces but recovers almost immediately, and suddenly Malachi is grabbing his arms again, as strong as before. He snatches the blade from Dean’s hands.

“You should not have done that,” whispers Malachi.

“Well, I’ve never been praised for my judgment,” Dean replies before tensing and raising his booted feet to kick Theo solidly in the face as Theo charges him, knife positioned to plunge into Dean’s chest. The thug falls to the alley floor with a grunt, and in a flash of panic Dean finally realizes these men want to kill him. _What the fuck?_ All he’d wanted was a few boxes of cereal and junk food, for Christ’s sake.

Malachi’s strong, but so is Dean, and with a few well-timed squirms and elbow jabs, the blonde manages to wrestle his way out of his captor’s grip. He spins and tries to snatch back the blade, but Malachi retaliates with several strong blows to Dean’s face. Dean’s head snaps sideways with every punch, throbbing now, but he manages to stay on his feet and get in a few good return swings. He remembers Theo just in time to twist and catch him in the face with a roundhouse kick, the heel of his boot connecting with the other man’s nose with a satisfying c _runch._ Dean chuckles with satisfaction at the sound.

Then, horrifyingly, as Theo straightens up, his crooked nose snaps back into place in front Dean’s eyes. The bruising fades and the blood evaporates in a quick flash of light, leaving a smug grin in its place. Dean just stares, terrified.

“You have no idea who you are up against, _boy_ ,” Theo growls, and his eyes begin emitting a fucking _white light,_ like some sort of CGI special effect. Only he’s not on a screen—he’s right here, right in front of Dean, and his eyes are _glowing._

_What. The fuck._

Dean barely has time to think before Malachi is on him again from behind. A strong arm circles his chest and before he has time to get away, a sharp, searing pain blooms in his left shoulder, burning his flesh from the inside out. He screams, and before his eyes screw shut in agony, he glances down and sees the end of Malachi’s strange knife protruding from his own body. “Fuck!” he cries as the blade is pulled out with a savage twist. “Oh God…” He drops to one knee and clutches his left arm to his chest, breathing harshly through his nose. Hot blood seeps through his green plaid shirt and oozes through his fingertips; he wonders vaguely what his father would think of him now. “ _Beaten and stabbed to death in a dirty alley by two thugs in leather jackets”—the obit’s gonna be a trip to read,_ he thinks, before his mind clouds over with pain.

Malachi laughs darkly, pulling back. “Theo,” he murmurs, “finish it.”

“With pleasure.” The other man steps forward menacingly, his mouth twisted in a downright evil grin, and raises his own blade. The muscles in his hand tense, preparing to strike a killing blow.

Dean has to think fast. As quickly as he can manage, he scoots out of Theo’s way and sweeps his own leg around, tipping the larger man off-balance and making him stumble forward. Caught off guard, Theo falls against Malachi, arm still raised and wielding his weapon. The force of their impact causes the raised blade to sink directly into the center of Malachi’s chest.

Theo gasps, utterly shocked. “Malachi!” he cries, withdrawing the blade as quickly as possible and dropping it to the concrete with an echoing metallic _clang._ “Brother! _No!”_

The wound is glowing and emitting a high-pitched whine. Malachi’s eyes are wide open, his jaw slack, as he looks up at his companion—evidently, his brother. Blood bubbles up in his mouth and he coughs, glancing down at his injury with as much horror as Theo. A strangled, pained sound leaves his lips and he collapses to the pavement, Theo following him.

Murmured words pass between the siblings in desperate, hushed tones. Apparently forgotten, Dean tries to listen from his vantage point against one of the alley walls, but they seem to be speaking in a different language. It’s all vowels and dropped consonants, like an otherworldly dialect of French.

Theo cradles Malachi in his arms, a tragic _pieta_ , just as Malachi’s limp body explodes.

Well, it’s not quite an explosion—there’s a great, blinding flash of bluish-white light that burns Dean’s eyes so much that he has to cover them with his arm. A high-pitched shrieking accompanies the light; after about five seconds, it fades, and there is nothing but silence in the alley once again.

Dean licks his split lip nervously, then slowly removes his arm from in front of his eyes to peer at the spot where the two men had been. Now, they’re gone, and in their place is some kind of pattern smudged onto the cold concrete. It looks like it’s been burned into the ground. Dean struggles to his feet, still with his left arm wrapped around his torso, and hobbles over to the spot to investigate.

The ashy pattern is a set of wings—six in total, split into two sets of three. They fan out at least fifteen feet in either direction, large and lush, delicately tapered near the tips, each individual feather visible in this strange imprint. There’s just enough space between the pair of appendages for a body about Malachi’s size to fit.

They’re angel wings. Somehow, Dean just knows this.

Then again, maybe it’s the blood loss—the wound in his shoulder is gushing, despite his best efforts to halt the flow with his hand. A wave of dizziness and nausea washes over him and he stumbles towards the nearest wall, leaning heavily against it. There’s a small split in the bottom of his shirt, so he tears a strip of fabric from it and ties it around the wound as tightly as he can, all the while trying to comprehend what has just happened to him.

Were those two men some kind of supernatural creatures? Were they _angels?_ That would explain the light and the wings and the insane strength, but they’d been so brutal—like bred killing machines. Weren’t angels supposed to be kind and loving towards humanity? Isn’t that why they were created in the first place?

_Fuck. Those winged bastards just keep following me around, don’t they?_

And what had they meant by “c _orrupting one of our own_ ”? Who were they talking about? The only people Dean’s been in contact with for almost the past month are Sam, Bobby, and Cas. His brother and surrogate father are definitely not angels—Dean would know—but Cas…

The world tilts under Dean’s feet and he nearly crumples to the ground, his train of thought officially de-railed. He knows his injuries probably warrant a trip to the hospital, but there’s plenty of supplies at Bobby’s to patch him up just fine. The old man will probably be pissed that Dean got himself into yet another mess. Cas’ll be worried and motherly, most likely. Dean feels something warm unfurl in his sore stomach at that thought. The grey-eyed man has never really adhered to Dean’s rule about personal space. Maybe he’ll hold Dean’s hand to comfort him, run his fingers through Dean’s hair. That sounds nice.

Before he turns to leave, Dean leans over and picks up the blade that Theo had dropped—it looks like something Bobby would be interested in adding to his vast weapons collection. It’s cold and heavy in his grip, denser than any other metal Dean’s held before. He turns it in his hand, noticing vaguely that there’s no trace of blood anywhere on it, before slipping it into one of the hidden pockets within his green army jacket. It hangs there like an anchor, banging against his side as he walks; he’s almost afraid it’ll slice through the thin lining.

Dry leaves crunch under Dean’s boots as he staggers his way to the Challenger, groceries forgotten. Slipping into the driver’s seat is painful—no doubt he has a couple bruised ribs—and he doesn’t even bother with the seatbelt as it would hurt his impaled shoulder. Pulling the key out of his pocket with one hand and inserting it into the ignition, he sighs, coughs, and hopes he can get home without having another near-death experience.

Then again, with the way things have been going lately, angels will show up to protect him. Or try to kill him. There’s a good chance for each, really.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

The bathroom floor, kitchen counter, and dining room table are Cas’s assigned cleaning projects for the next couple of hours. Bobby had seemed rather eager to delegate these tasks to someone other than himself, and had visibly been holding back a smile while handing Cas the cleaning solution, bucket, and scraps of frayed fabric he would use to carry out his jobs. There’s a strange enjoyment he gets out of cleaning—he feels purposeful, useful. Though he doesn’t think Father’s special purpose for him includes sterilizing linoleum tiles, it will do for now.

 _Thank you again,_ the ex-Seraph prays with a quick glance to the bathroom ceiling. He gets down on his knees, dunks one of his rags in the bucket, and sets to work.

The monotony of scrubbing in the same back-and-forth motion opens Cas’s mind, and he starts thinking about the past couple of weeks he’s spent here with Dean. Ever since the night of the bonfire, something has been different between them—there’s an openness to their relationship now, along with a new tenderness that Cas had not expected. Contrary to what he’d originally thought, Dean appears to thrive off of physical touch. His response whenever Cas hugs him is to immediately return the embrace with as much fervor as the other man, and to hold on for as long as Cas allows him to. He’s also begun dropping casual touches whenever he and Cas are within a close proximity—a pat to Cas’s shoulder, a squeeze of his knee, a warm, broad hand on the small of Cas’s back. Those touches are certainly welcome, of course, but something about them—the spark of sensation that shoots up his spine; the heat that pools in his stomach—makes Cas almost uncomfortable. It’s a pleasant discomfort, though, one he could get used to. In fact, he may already be used to it.

_As Dean would say, I’m “royally screwed.”_

Cas knows Raphael had intended for him to find a female mate when they’d made this agreement of theirs, but not only has Cas run out of time to meet and fall in love with a complete stranger—he has also become so attached to Dean that he fears his attraction may be morphing into something…more. Something much stronger, much harder to cleanse from his system.

They’d gone to see the sunset in the field together last week, him and Dean, alone together, and this time Dean had known Cas was sitting beside him. It was an idyllic evening—sharing a “six-pack” of beers, sharing body heat by sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the hood of the Challenger (Cas had once again wished for his wings to keep them warm), watching the sky as it morphed from dull grey-blue hues to ones of awe-inspiring scarlet and orange. Once again, however, it had been more beautiful to behold reflected in Dean’s sparkling cilantro-colored eyes.

Dean had caught him staring, and Cas’s explanation had been honest: he’d admitted that he found Dean’s eyes to be more beautiful than the technicolor spectacle spread out before them. He hadn’t said everything, however—like how he thought God’s most beautiful creation wasn’t the sunset, but the man sitting here on the hood of this car witnessing it. He’d wanted so badly to kiss Dean there, with the taste of cheap alcohol lingering on their lips, but he hadn’t been courageous enough. He’d turned to the sky at last, hoping the dimming light would conceal the flush rising in his face.

He’d also, embarrassingly, felt blood rushing to other areas of his body, but with enough concentration he’d managed to calm himself down.

Now Cas just wants to complete his chores so he and Dean can finish the final episode of _Firefly_ that Bobby had interrupted. He smirks at the thought of the older man—despite his gruff exterior, Bobby has proved to be a very caring man with a heart as large as his broad smile. Cas has grown to like him. When— _if,_ he has to remind himself adamantly, _if—_ he leaves, he’ll miss the crotchety mechanic and his dry sense of humor.

The bathroom floor is over halfway cleaned when Cas hears the rumble of the Challenger’s engine pulling up outside the house. A minute later, the bell over the front door jingles downstairs. Cas pauses in his work, puzzled, and glances up at the clock on the wall over the toilet. Dean’s only been gone for thirty minutes. _Perhaps one of the stores was closed…_

“Bobby!”

The sound of Dean’s voice—tight, pained, and hoarse—sets off a flare of panic in Cas’s chest. _Something’s wrong._ Without a second thought, the ex-Seraph drops his rag into the bucket and jumps up from the ground, heading down the stairs more quickly than he ever has.

Dean and Bobby are in the kitchen when Cas finds them. Dean’s sitting in one of the dining table chairs with his back to the doorway, hunched over in what appears to be pain. The fabric covering the back of his left shoulder is splotched with a dark liquid. It’s blood, Cas knows. Dean is bleeding. Cas freezes in the doorway, bile and panic rising in his throat.

Bobby is leaning over Dean, trying to meet his eyes. “The fuck happened to you, son?” he asks, a genuinely concerned expression painting his features. He glances up, sees Cas standing a few feet away, and gestures for him to come closer. “C’mere, boy, I’m gonna need you to help me out here,” he calls, then dashes upstairs to get their medical supplies.

“Y-Yes, of course.” Cas’s legs are suddenly mobile again, and he walks over until he’s standing in the spot Bobby has just vacated. Now he has a better view of Dean: His face, splotched with reddening bruises, is twisted in pain, and he appears to be having a difficult time sitting up. His right hand is covering a wound in his left shoulder, his fingers slick with scarlet. He looks terrible. Cas crouches down to meet his tired gaze. “Dean?”

A spark lights in those green eyes as Dean glances up to look at him. He smiles a little. “Heya, Cas.”

“What happened?” the ex-Seraph asks softly. He reaches up with one shaking hand to gently cradle the side of Dean’s pale face. The other man closes his eyes and leans into the touch with a relieved sigh.

“Got attacked,” he replies.

“By whom?” Anger suddenly flares up inside Cas, his old warrior instincts awakening after being dormant for nearly a month. He wants nothing more than to find whoever did this awful thing to such a wonderful man and tear them apart with his bare hands. Perhaps even smite them. Whichever would be more painful. More firmly, he demands, “Who did this to you, Dean?”

“Coupla guys. Dunno who they were, but they sure knew who I was.” Dean shifts in his seat. “Called me by name.” He slowly takes his hand away from his shoulder and reaches into his jacket. “One of ‘em stabbed me with this.”

The weapon Dean presents to him is one Cas had hoped to never see again: an angel blade.

It’s just as lethal-looking as Cas remembers. Dean holds it out to Cas in his bloodied fingers—an image the ex-angel has seen too many times—and Cas takes it from him with shaking ones. He stares at it for several long seconds, eyes wide in disbelief. There’s only one possible explanation: Dean was attacked by angels. Most likely some of Raphael’s top soldiers, since there is no one else the Archangel would trust with a task such as this—no doubt he was trying to eliminate Dean, who has obviously become Cas’s last chance at finding love in his remaining time on Earth.

The heft of the blade is familiar in Cas’s hand, and without thinking he twirls it once in a reflexive motion. When Dean looks at him strangely, he immediately sets it down on the table behind him and asks another question: “You didn’t manage to hear them calling _each other_ by name, did you?”

Dean thinks for a moment. “Yeah, I did, actually—one of them was called, uh, Mac…Mitch…Mmmalachi. Malachi, yeah.”

 _Malachi? One of the highest ranking garrison leaders?_ Trying to mask the shock in his voice, Cas presses, “And the other?”

“Started with a T…Theo, I think.”

Another one of Raphael’s most skilled fighters. Cas shivers at the memory of Theo’s scarred face and tries not to gasp aloud—going up against those two particular angels, Dean should not have survived. Cas isn’t even sure he himself could stand up for long against them. He’s skilled as well, so much so that Raphael wants him bad enough to allow him to live for a time as a human, but Malachi and Theo are almost always lethal when fighting together. So how in Father’s name had a mortal man bested them unarmed?

Cas tries to phrase that question in a more neutral way. “How did you get away?”

Dean tries to shrug, then winces as the movement aggravates his injury. His hand flies back to his shoulder and he hisses through his teeth. Cas is immediately crouching right in front of him, hand gripping Dean’s knee, trying to make soothing noises. He wishes so much that he still had his healing powers, wants so badly to make all of Dean’s pain evaporate with a simple brush of his fingertips and a whispered Enochian spell. It almost physically hurts him to know that he can’t do that anymore. He thinks back to the night they’d unofficially met, when all he’d had to do to repair broken bones, brain hemorrhaging, and various abrasions was place his hands on Dean’s chest and focus. Now, no matter how hard he concentrates or how desperately he wishes for Dean to be healed, nothing happens. He’s as mortal as Dean now.

All at once, Cas realizes this is the first time he’s regretted his choice to become temporarily human. Something as simple as not being able to take away his friend’s pain has made him question every decision he’d made back in Heaven. Truthfully, it’s not that surprising. Cas cares for Dean more now than he had on that first night, so much that it’s starting to influence his judgment.

He really _is_ “screwed.” He knows he is. But right now, he doesn’t care. His only concern in this moment is Dean.

Finally, Dean is able to speak through his agony to answer Cas’s most recent inquiry. “I was on my knees…the bigger one, Theo, was coming at me with this knife—”

“Sword,” Cas corrects automatically, then clamps his lips closed. Dean gives him a strange look.

“—sword, okay. He was about to stab me in the chest with his sword, and Malachi was right behind me, so I dodged his blow and tripped him. He ended up stabbing Malachi instead.”

“He—Theo stabbed Malachi? Was he killed?” _If Malachi is dead, Raphael will send the wrath of a thousand Celestial soldiers down on us in hours._

“Yeah, I think so.” _No…_ “Then the weirdest thing happened—his body, it, like… _exploded_ or something. Theo was holding him, and there was this crazy bright light that burned my eyes, and when it faded, they…they were just gone.”

Without knowing it, Dean has just become the first human in over two thousand years to witness the death of an angel. Cas is speechless.

He’s about to ask if Dean had seen the ashy imprints of Malachi’s wings on the pavement when Bobby re-appears in the kitchen, arms full of what Cas can only hope is sufficient supplies to heal Dean. The older mechanic makes his way to the table and drops everything onto it, then turns to Cas, holding out a folded towel. “Press this against both sides of his shoulder wound, ya got me?”

Cas takes the towel and nods mutely. As gently as he can, he grasps Dean’s wrist and moves his hand away from the injury, replacing it quickly with the towel. As soon as he applies even the slightest pressure, Dean’s body goes rigid and he moans through his teeth.

“I’m so sorry,” Cas murmurs, feeling genuinely remorseful, “but it’s necessary.” He moves one of his hands briefly to the side of Dean’s head and cards his fingers through the soft dirty-blonde spikes.

Dean moans again, but this time the sound is different. His eyelids slip closed and he presses against Cas’s hand. “Feels so good, Cas, keep doin’ that,” he mutters, words slurred.

Those words spoken in that tone of voice send a flare of heat coursing down Cas’s spine and igniting in his abdomen. Something stirs between his legs and his jeans suddenly feel like they’re tightening around his groin. Recognizing the arousal for what it is, the ex-Seraph mentally scolds himself and tries to focus on his task. He removes his hand from Dean’s hair and does his best to ignore the disappointed whimper that results.

“He’s lost a lotta blood,” Bobby says from where he’s disinfecting and bandaging the small abrasions peppering Dean’s face like grotesque freckles. “Keep pressure on that wound, Cas; he hasn’t bled out yet but there’s still every chance that he could.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Dean grouses, eyes still closed.

“Shut up an’ let us take care of you, ya idjit.” Bobby presses an adhesive beige bandage on a cut just under Dean’s left eye. “Is there anywhere else that hurts?”

“My ribs. One of ‘em kicked me pretty good.”

Cas resists the urge to growl low in his throat. Every new piece of information that comes out of Dean’s mouth makes him even more desperate to lash out against the angels who did this. If his Grace were still intact, it would be crackling at his fingertips, itching to be used in vengeance. He’s glad Malachi is dead, truthfully, because that means Cas doesn’t have to worry about killing him. Theo, on the other hand, will most certainly suffer for his crimes—never mind that he’s Cas’s brother; he hurt Dean, and for that he will pay. Eventually. Cas will see to it, whether or not his Celestial status is restored.

Once the smaller injuries have been taken care of, Bobby and Cas both help Dean remove his shirts. The flannel is unbuttoned and the tee is carefully pulled over his head, revealing a disturbing amalgamation of bruises mottling his right side and a mess of dried blood surrounding the triangular hole in his shoulder. Besides the injuries, though, Dean has an extremely attractive torso—broad, muscled shoulders and toned pectorals twitch under freckled skin, making it difficult for Cas to resist reaching out to touch. He closes his eyes briefly and gulps, trying to eliminate the scandalous images that are invading the typically unemotional sanctuary of his head. Dean is _hurt—_ Cas should not be picturing leaning in and pressing light kisses all over that skin, counting those freckles with his lips, caressing the sharp line of those collarbones with his fingers and the tip of his nose…

 _Stop!_ The ex-Seraph shakes his head vigorously and does his best to put those thoughts out of his mind. The human male psyche is so focused on sensuality and pleasure—he still isn’t used to it. The thoughts he’s been having lately about his beautiful human friend occur several times a day and make him blush vibrantly. It’s horrifically embarrassing. Briefly, he wonders if Raphael has been listening to them.

Luckily the bleeding has ceased, but Dean looks rather pale and appears to be struggling to stay awake. Bobby retrieves a bag of frozen corn from the freezer and instructs Cas to hold it against the bruises while he himself wets a rag with something called “rubbing alcohol.” Cas gets on his knees to be closer to Dean and winces at the memory of how that liquid had felt on his bloodied feet the first night he’d been here.

The quick, strained scream that erupts from Dean’s mouth as soon as the caustic solution comes in contact with his wound sends Cas’s stomach into a painful roil. Without a second thought, he drops the bag of frozen food and his cold hands fly up to the sides of Dean’s neck, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the sensitive flesh there. Tearful green eyes snap open at the contact and meet Cas’s, full of questions.

“It’s alright, _vvrbs obza,_ ” Cas murmurs softly, heedless of the Enochian that has just slipped off his tongue. One of his hands crawls back into Dean’s hair. “ _Etharzi,_ dear one.” He may be unable to physically soothe Dean’s pain now, but he can at least try to make it more mentally bearable.

Chest heaving, Dean stares at Cas’s face in confusion as though he’s trying to translate the ex-angel’s ancient words. After a long moment, he seems to stop holding back and clings desperately to Cas, closing his eyes again and grasping one of Cas’s hands in his own to keep it pressed to his skin. Creases form on his forehead and around his eyes as his face tightens with pain, but Cas’s touch certainly does seem to be keeping him grounded.

They hold that position through the rest of Bobby’s cleansing, and even through the sutures he places in Dean’s wound. The older man is forgotten by the two of them as Cas provides comfort and Dean drinks it up, fingers clenched tightly around Cas’s wrist. His grip tenses and relaxes with every stitch Bobby makes, six in each side of the wound; Cas lets him hold on and doesn’t stop murmuring soothing sounds and words, some English, some not. He accidentally slips into Italian at one point, but luckily Dean doesn’t seem to notice.

Through it all, Cas can feel Bobby watching him intently.

The final suture is placed after about five minutes and Dean is finally allowed to slump back in his chair, completely exhausted. Cas sits back on his heels and takes his hands away from Dean’s face and hair, only to place one on Dean’s knee in a perpetual reassurance. When Bobby leaves the room to get Dean another shirt and a bottle of “extra-strength painkiller”—most likely whiskey—Cas looks up at his friend with concern.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

A slow, labored nod. “Yeah, just a lil’ banged up,” comes the hoarse reply.

Cas gives his knee a squeeze. “Perhaps you should sleep.”

“Think I will.” Dean shifts a little in the chair and holds his shoulder again. “God, those fuckers were insane. Why’d they target me, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Cas lies. He clenches his jaw twice. “But I swear, if I ever discover who they are, they will pay for this. I will see to it.” His vow is solemn, spoken in a low, threatening voice he hadn’t intended to use.

Dean glances at him, mildly amused. “Oh really? You got your own army or somethin’, Cas?”

“Well, no,” the ex-angel sheepishly admits. _Not any longer._ “But I will find some way to punish them. I promise you.”

“Why? What’s the big deal?”

Cas looks up at Dean with an incredulous expression. “What do you mean?” he asks, genuinely puzzled. “They _hurt_ you, Dean. And I…” His voice dies out and he has to avert his gaze back to his own lap.

A couple of seconds pass, then Cas feels a warm hand cover his own. He jumps at the sudden shock he feels at the touch and looks up.

“You what, Cas?” Dean asks gently. His bruised face is kind, open. Cas can deny him nothing.

“I…don’t like seeing you hurt,” he finally admits. A reservoir seems to burst in his heart and he cannot keep himself from speaking honestly. “Seeing you in pain here, hearing you cry out, it…it hurts _me_. A heaviness settles in my chest like a stone when you are in distress and I can do nothing to help you. That night I told you I would watch over you, I…I don’t think that nightmares were the only thing I was referring to.” This is more than he had meant to reveal, but he cannot stop himself. He sighs, dropping his eyes again for a heartbeat or two before raising them again. They meet Dean’s dead-on, unblinking. “I-I want to protect you. Keep you safe. Even if it sounds ridiculous. You may think that you deserve pain, but you do not, and I want so badly to keep you from it as best I can.”

His grey eyes are wide and glistening, he knows, as he stares at this magnificent man he has grown to care so much for in the past three weeks. Dean’s are warm as they stare into Cas’s, and his expression softens more than Cas has ever seen. A small smile rests on those perfectly bowed lips; Cas can’t keep himself from watching them as Dean asks, “Are you saying you wanna be my guardian angel?”

These words should cause a flare of suspicion and fear in Cas’s stomach, but he feels nothing now. Nothing, that is, except the overwhelming desire to answer sincerely.

“Yes.” He means it, more than he’s ever meant anything.

They stare at each other, breaths almost mingling, for what feels to Cas like an eternity. In a swift, unexpected move, Dean moves his hand to Cas’s lightly stubbled cheek. His thumb brushes feather-light over the cheekbone, causing Cas’s breath to stutter in his chest and his eyelids to flicker.

Dean gives a quiet chuckle. “You shaved recently?”

“Y-Yesterday,” Cas chokes out of a dry mouth. “The razor was, um, a little d-dull.”

“’S fine. Looks good.” That hand starts caressing the side of Cas’s face. “I like your voice, y’know. Thanks for helpin’ me out, talking to me during all that.”

“Of course, Dean.”

“And Cas?”

“Yes…?”

“Just so you know, I’m not the only one with pretty eyes around here.”

 _Christ._ Cas’s heart is pounding almost painfully in his throat and fingertips, but he loves it. Adrenaline and testosterone and oxytocin flood his veins, a thrilling combination, when Dean smiles at him. In the next moment, Dean’s face is slowly approaching his own, and Cas cannot believe his luck. It’s a strange thought, but at this moment, Cas suddenly remembers one line of lyrics from the song that had been playing in Dean’s Impala on the night they’d first unofficially met:

“ _Love, it’s just a kiss away._ ”

Cas is lost and found all at once as he recalls that phrase. _Finally_ finally _at long last Father thank you_ he thinks in a rush, and closes his eyes.

He can just feel Dean’s hot breath on his lips—they’re _so close,_ closer than they’ve ever been; Cas thinks he would die of the exhilaration if he didn’t have Dean here to keep his heart beating—when the sound of a heavy bottle hitting the floor echoes from the living room, followed by a gruffly muttered “Shit!”

A stronger word runs through Cas’s head in every language he knows as he and Dean jump back from each other in shock. They stare at each other, faces flushed, almost panting, until Dean clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his gaze falls away from his friend’s. Unsure of what else to do, Cas removes his hand from Dean’s knee—after unclenching his white-knuckled grip—and stands up. He hurries over to busy himself at the sink as Bobby enters the room, arms full of glass bottles with intricate labels.

“Alright, I got the J’s—Jack, Jim Beam, an’ Johnnie Walker, red and black. What’ll it be, boy?”

“Jack.” Dean’s voice is gravelly and tight, only it’s not just pain constricting his throat now. Cas blushes at the sound. “Don’t even bother with the glass, just…gimme the bottle.”

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Dean looks even more stunning when he’s asleep. Cas watches him from the doorway of his room until his breaths even out and his lips gently part. The sunlight slanting through the closed blinds that cover the windows bathes the mechanic’s perfect face in gold. His long eyelashes cast shadows over his cheeks, drawing Cas’s attention away from the awful darkening bruises beneath them. There is no tension in Dean’s face when he sleeps, no sign of the troubled man who has to remind himself why he stays alive. If Cas could watch him all afternoon, he would, but Dean would no doubt find it unsavory _—“Fuckin’ creepy, Cas, that’s what it is!”_ Cas can almost hear his friend’s voice in his head saying those words. He smiles as he leaves the darkening room.

Bobby is sitting on the couch in the living room when Cas gets there. He has the stolen angel blade in his hands and is studying it closely with his nose almost touching the razor-sharp edge. His hat is in his lap and his hair is mussed, as though he’s been running his fingers through it. When he hears Cas approach, he glances up quickly, then back down at the weapon. “The hell is this thing?” he mutters, half to Cas, half to himself. “I collect antiques, mostly old knives an’ guns an’ other weapons. I like to think I know a little about a lot ‘cuz of that. But in the thirty years I been collecting, I ain’t never seen anything like this.”

Cas can only shrug. He’s desperate to tell Bobby everything, everything about angels, about the ones that had attacked Dean, about the manipulatively evil Archangel that had ordered them to. It sits on his tongue, sour and unpleasant, but he swallows it down. Explaining all of that to Bobby would do no good for anyone, least of all Dean.

Bobby glances up at Cas as the ex-angel sits down heavily on the opposite end of the couch. “You alright?”

Cas nods, staring at his hands in his lap. He picks at his fingernails—there’s still some of Dean’s dried blood crusted beneath them, and it makes him nauseous. A hard swallow ripples down his throat.

“Don’t believe ya,” Bobby presses. He sets the angel blade down on the coffee table with a soft _clink_ and leans towards Cas slightly, elbows braced on his knees. “Spill it.”

“I…There is really nothing to tell, Bobby,” Cas lies, then glances over at the blade. He hesitates. “Could you, um…put that away? I do not like looking at it.”

Bobby appears mildly confused, but he concedes. “Sure thing.” He takes the weapon over to the nearby small room that houses his antiques—if he knew the true age of his latest acquisition, Cas thinks, he’d keep it separate from those other relatively young objects.

“Thank you,” the grey-eyed man says when Bobby returns to the couch. “It was making me uncomfortable.”

“Why?” It’s an innocent question with perhaps a not-so-innocent answer.

Cas answers anyway. “It could have killed Dean,” he says, his voice breaking. Another pang of fear punches him in the stomach at the thought, causing him to wince.

Bobby nods. A knowing look lights in his eyes, but he says nothing.

“…What?” Cas asks nervously.

“Nothin’, nothin’, ‘s just…” A laugh rumbles from Bobby’s chest and he shakes his head fondly at the other man. “You got it bad, that’s all.”

Cas widens his eyes. “I have an illness? Am I sick?” He’s not sure he could deal with a disease on top of everything else that has happened in the past couple of hours.

“No, no, I mean…you like Dean.”

“Yes I do.”

“…You like him a lot, don’t ya?”

Cas isn’t sure of the goal of this interrogation. His heart rate increases. “Yes…he is a good friend.”

Bobby grins at him warmly. “D’you have any idea how long it’s been since that boy had someone he could call a friend?” he asks.

“He has told me that he has very high standards,” Cas says. “He does not give his trust away very easily, I suppose.”

“Huh? You kiddin’ me?” Bobby guffaws. “That’s his worst problem—he trust _too_ easily! He used to give his heart away to whoever bid the highest or wore a crop-top the best. Dean has a heart that’s too damn big for his own good, and no matter how hard he tries to hold it back, it always wins in the end.” A solemn cloud falls over his face briefly as he appears to remember something dark. Cas doesn’t ask. “Few years back, some shit went down with a girl named Lisa. He loved her more than he’s ever loved anything else in his life, ‘cept his brother and maybe that stupid car of his. Thought he was gonna marry her.”

“What happened?” Cas asks gently. He knows from personal experience how painful an open, overly-trusting heart can be, and how awful it feels to love something or someone so deeply and profoundly only to have it hurt you in the end.

“She fuckin’ cheated on him.” There’s an old animosity plain in Bobby’s voice. “Left ‘im alone in that big house to go sleep with a white-collar sleazedick from her work. Took her kid, Ben, with her, which was like takin’ Dean’s own son away from him.” He shakes his head as if he still hasn’t forgiven her. “He was crushed. Vowed never to give his heart away like that again.”

“Understandable.” Cas feels a simmering rage bubbling beneath the surface of his skin. _How would anyone dare betray Dean like that?_ His thoughts deviate to his brother Ezekiel, to the cruel words he’d said to Cas on the day Cas had left Heaven, and the pain he’d felt when he’d finally learned what the elder angel truly thought of him. When it comes to love, Cas supposes, he and Dean have more in common than he’d originally thought.

Raphael’s words echo in his mind briefly: _You must find someone with a love to rival your own…_

“But then…listen, Cas.” Bobby turns to face him directly, and Cas gives him his full attention. “I’m gonna tell you somethin’ that you really need to know, ‘cuz I ain’t sure you’ve figured it out quite yet. It’s important.”

The ex-Seraph nods. “I am listening,” he assures the older man.

“Good. See…Dean was never the same after Lisa. ‘S been almost ten years, but he still gets that distant look in his eye every once an’ awhile, an’ I can tell he’s feelin’ lonely. I dunno if he’s thinkin’ about her or what, but whatever it is, it makes him look lost. It’s like he’s realizing he’s alone, expecting to be alone forever. I hate seein’ him like that. So does Sam.” Bobby pauses for a moment to sigh, long and deep. “But the thing is, I haven’t seen that look on his face in a month.” He meets Cas’s gaze. “Not since you showed up.”

Cas just stares at him. He thinks he may know what Bobby is trying to say, but it seems too surreal to be true.

The mechanic continues after a few seconds. “The way he is with you, Cas, it’s somethin’ I ain’t seen in years. Sam makes ‘im happy, sure, and he loves workin’ on cars in the yard, but when the two of you are sittin’ here on this couch and watchin’ some dumb TV show, every shadow disappears from his face. He’s happy.  _You_ make him happy.”

“He makes me happy, too,” Cas says. He tilts his head inquisitively, anxious about asking this next question: “What are you trying to tell me, Bobby?”

“I’m tryin’ to tell you that somehow, someway, you’ve become extremely important to him,” Bobby answers seriously, placing a weathered hand on Cas’s forearm and squeezing it. “You bring something out in him that I thought I’d never see again. He drinks less since you got here. He hugs you, lets you hug him, takes care of you, lets you borrow his clothes…And just now? What happened back in the kitchen while I was stitchin’ him up? You calmed him down the way I’ve only ever seen his brother do. He trusts you so much. Last time I saw him like this…” Another squeeze, and a disbelieving head shake. “…Last time he was like this, he was in love.”

That…That’s both the first and last thing Cas had thought Bobby would say. His throat closes up on his next breath and his entire body tenses; all he can hear is blood rushing in his ears and his fingers shaking where they’re digging into his own knees. _In love…he’s acting like he’s in love._ Affection had been all Cas was really anticipating; _this—_ this is more than he’d expected. Yes, he’d hoped and prayed that his feelings were returned (after today, he cannot deny that they are definitely feelings of love), and their almost-kiss in the kitchen an hour ago had made that hope stronger, but to hear Bobby tell him directly is overwhelming, euphoric, even.

Between the wave of dizziness that crashes over him and his heart trying to burst out of his chest, the ex-angel barely manages to choke out, “…R-Really?”

“Really,” Bobby replies with a gentle, kind smile. “Dean cares about you a whole fuckin’ lot, and Sam and I think you’re a good guy, too. An’ I think I already know the answer to this, but I’ll ask it anyway: Do you care about him that much?”

Cas swallows hard and nods fervently. “Yes. Yes I do. I am fairly certain that I…love him, as well,” he admits, and voicing those words at long last lifts a heavy weight from his heart and mind.

“Thought so.” Bobby pats his arm. “An’ that means when he wakes up—which’ll probably be tomorrow, given how worn out he is—the two of you gotta have a talk.”

“We will,” Cas promises immediately. A thrill of anticipation shoots up his spine at the very thought of what that conversation could lead to.

“Good.” The older man nods in satisfaction and removes his hand. “But I gotta warn ya, too—if you do anything at all to hurt that boy, make him revert back into that shell he’s hidden in for so long, I will come after you with a vengeance you ain’t ever seen. An’ I’ll have his giant half-moose brother to help me out.” There’s a gleam in Bobby’s eyes now that almost borders on threatening. Cas gulps. “You understand me, son?”

“Of course,” Cas promises, meeting Bobby’s gaze unblinkingly. He’s never been more serious about a vow in all his three thousand years. “I would never dream of hurting him. He does not deserve pain from anyone, least of all from those he loves. If I knew where to find Lisa, I would unleash an unbelievable wrath upon her for what she did to him.” He’s serious about that, as well. Perhaps it’s a bit too strong of a statement, but he doesn’t care. It’s the truth, after all.

Bobby chuckles. “So would I.”

The two men look at each other in a comfortable silence for several seconds before Bobby smiles at Cas warmly, gazing at him with a fondness Cas has rarely ever been the recipient of. The ex-Seraph blinks at him. “What is it?”

Bobby shakes his head minutely and grins wider. “’Nothin’. Just…yer good for him. You make him happier than he’s been in ages. And I…” He pauses. A rough hand claps Cas firmly on the shoulder. “Thank you, Cas. Really. To be honest, it kinda feels like you’re one of us already.”

“One of you?”

“ _Family,_ Cas. You feel like a member of the family.”

At that, Cas has to hold back a gasp. Family? Is Bobby telling him he is an honorary member of the Winchester-Singer household? The concept is incredible.

Something Dean had said beside the fire that night echoes in his mind: _Family doesn’t end in blood._ This is a doctrine of Bobby’s, apparently, and when he thinks about it, Cas finds himself believing it more and more. He’s felt more cared for in this house during these past few weeks than he had in Heaven for three millennia. These people—strangers, in reality—had taken him in without hesitation and integrated him into their lives almost seamlessly. There has never been a moment where Cas hasn’t felt welcome here. He’s never experienced that before. All throughout his existence, he’s felt like he’s had to hide parts of himself to be accepted, whether that be his wings, his eyes, his expansive heart, his desire for free will. Here…they don’t even require him to wear a shirt if he doesn’t wish to. It’s amazing. This _place_ is amazing.

Bobby and Sam and Dean…they really are his family. His heart swells. He can barely breathe.

He doesn’t feel the tears leaking from his eyes until Bobby is shoving a box of tissue paper into his hands. “Well, gee, didn’t mean to make ya cry, boy.”

“Y-You did nothing wrong, Bobby,” Cas assures through a sniffle. He dabs at his runny nose and damp eyes with a tissue. “It’s just…I…” His throat closes up and he swallows the lump down with great effort before looking Bobby in the eyes. “I-I’m happy to hear that you care for me like that. Beyond happy.” He lets out a watery laugh, complete with a wobbly smile and streaming eyes. “I’ve never had a true family before. It…It’s…”

“Well, you do now.” Bobby rubs his back soothingly, paternal instincts clearly taking over. “’S okay. Just breathe a little for me.” The grey-eyed man does as he’s told. “Yeah, I can imagine it’s a nice change over that huge family you got back in Florida.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cas sobs with a strong nod. The tears continue to flow. “Yes, it’s so different, a-and so much better.” He’s in utter disbelief still. “Oh, Bobby, thank you so much.” Without a second thought, he leans over and wraps his trembling arms around the older man, holding on tightly as though he were embracing his own Father.

Bobby hugs back with a short laugh. “Hey, hey. O’ course.”

A pang of devotion and gratitude strikes Cas in the stomach like a bolt of electricity and he clings to his older friend even harder, the scratch of a beard chafing against his cheek. “I’m not going to leave,” Cas says against Bobby’s flannel-covered shoulder, feeling the sudden urge to promise this. He knows he might not be able to follow through on it, but the words force themselves past his lips despite that. “I-I am going to stay with you, and with Dean, a-and we and Sam—we’ll be a family together. A _true_ family.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way. An’ I’m sure Dean’ll say the same when he wakes up.”

The mention of his friend’s name causes Cas to pull back. “I will talk to him tomorrow,” he says, wiping his eyes with his hoodie sleeve. “Do you…do you really think he loves me? Truly?”

“After the way he acted with you in there? Kinda positive about it,” Bobby assures him.

Cas feels his face light up. “That is wonderful,” he breathes, half to himself.

Bobby grins. After a few more pats on Cas’s back, he gets up from the couch to make some dinner for the two of them. Cas is left alone in the living room, leaning back into the couch cushions and smiling wider than he ever has. His cheeks ache from it. It’s a fantastic new sensation. A kiss from Dean would probably be an even better one. The very idea that he may be able to experience that for himself tomorrow is too much for Cas to even comprehend.

He thinks back to his promise to Bobby, and a new spark of determination ignites somewhere in his soul. He _will_ find a way to stay with these humans. After all they’ve done for him, all he’s put them through, they’ve connected with each other in ties that could never be severed. Especially him and Dean. Cas wants nothing more than to stay with the emerald-eyed man, hold him, love him. Apparently, Dean wants the same with him. Once again, Cas is utterly blown away at the sheer magnificence that is Dean Winchester.

He’s Cas’s family, Cas realizes now. And Cas is his.

A fierce protectiveness suddenly overwhelms him. Glancing over his shoulder first to make sure Bobby is out of earshot, Cas clasps his hands together and turns his eyes to the water-stained ceiling above his head. With bitter rage poignant in his hushed voice, he mutters a prayer under his breath:

“Raphael. I know you sent your soldiers to kill Dean, and I know why. You think he is a threat to your plan, the one person that will keep me from returning to Heaven as one of your subjects. You are correct in that assumption. I will never serve in your wayward army of fools and murderers, or in any army again. The deadline for completing my task is in four days, and I have indeed completed it—I have found love, as you instructed, and it is with Dean Winchester. There is nothing you can or will ever be able to do to alter that fact.

“Know this as well, brother: If you or any of your soldiers ever go anywhere near Dean Winchester again—if they so much as touch a hair on his head—I will burn you and your empire to the bottom of the Pit. Grace or not, I will unleash upon you and your angels a wrath the likes of which you have never before encountered. To reach him, you must get through me, and I assure you that you will never get through me. I will defend him with my life, Raphael. If you test me, not only will you fail—you will perish at the mortal hands of the one soldier you would have killed to obtain. It is your choice, brother. I implore you to choose wisely.”

With that said, Cas opens his eyes and stands up. He figures it will take at least half an hour for Bobby to finish the stew he’s begun, so he heads to the staircase to check on Dean.

If he stays in the darkened room a few extra minutes just to watch his friend breathe, he can’t be blamed.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

_Oh, Castiel. Dear, young Castiel. Utterly foolish Castiel._

_First you thwart my plans. Then you cause the death of one of my finest garrison leaders. And now you dare to threaten me in your mortal state? Truly laughable. But on the other hand…entirely infuriating. My wings spark with rage that is simply begging to be released._

_I will come for you, Castiel. I will kill the human you have become enraptured with, and then I will bring you back to this Realm, to my ranks of soldiers, where you belong. You cannot escape me. I am God. If you resist me, I can and will end you. Be sure of that, young one. Even after all these centuries, you truly have no idea who or what you are up against._

_Sleep well tonight, wayward angel. For when you awaken tomorrow, your world will come crashing down around you in a mess of blood and fire and death._

_You have challenged a deity, and no matter which forces you think you have on your side, you will be the one to fail._

 

**~•~•~•~•~**


	7. Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS, THE FINAL CHAPTER! Sorry again for the delay, guys. 
> 
> also, since i like where this ended so much, i think i'm gonna just forgo the whole epilogue thing and just leave the story to be finished here, just as it is. i really hope you like it--this has been almost a year in the making, and it was a fucking bear at times, but it's all over now and i can finally relax.
> 
> please please plEEASE comment and leave kudos--it means a whole lot to unpaid, freelance authors like myself!!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

_You have suffered enough_

_And warred with yourself_

_It’s time that you won…_

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

He’s walking through a forest much like the one near the sunset field. The sweetly-scented air is warm and comfortable, and he sucks in a deep, contented breath as he tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans and meanders aimlessly through the trees. Despite the near-perfect weather, grass crunches under his boots, brown and dry, like it’s been sprayed with weed killer. Similarly, when he looks more closely at the canopy of leaves overhead, the shades of green are interspersed with dead yellowed patches. He doesn’t think much of it, though, and enjoys the late-afternoon sun shining through the thick branches as it warms his face.

This place feels…different than anywhere he’s been before. The sky is blue, the landscape is familiar, but there’s something else lingering in the air—a sort of dull, humming power, strong but subtle, permeating every molecule of oxygen around him. It makes the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickle slightly, but though he knows he should be either afraid or uncomfortable, he just isn’t. He feels safe here in these silent woods, content in being with himself for awhile. He has no obligations, no worries, no stresses he has to think about right now—the only thing on his mind is how strangely relaxed he is.

Time seems to work differently here, as well. He can’t sense it passing, nor can he tell how long he has left until the sun dips below the horizon. It seems fixed in place, unmoving in the endless sapphire sky. He has no idea how long he’s been walking—his knees and feet don’t ache at all—when a clearing appears in the expanse of trees in front of him. Sitting there on a boulder, wearing a long, ornate purple robe embroidered with silver and gold thread, is a man. He appears to be in his mid-to-early fifties, with neatly-combed brown hair and a short beard. He is reading an ancient-looking book with thick, yellowed pages and a leather binding, but when he senses the presence of another being, he looks up, revealing a pair of wise and indescribably kind silver eyes framed by shallow laugh lines.

He closes his book, sets it in the grass near his sandaled feet, and smiles warmly at his guest. His voice is smooth and deep when he says, “Hello, Dean Winchester.”

Dean stops in his tracks, a sense of uneasiness coming over him. He’s never seen this man before, though he seems oddly familiar in a sort of abstract way. His eyes are strange and ancient, and Dean can just tell that they guard age-old secrets he will never be worthy enough to know. Gulping, he asks, “Who are you?”

The man replies with a soft chuckle, “I have many names that I do not have time to reveal to you.” Slowly, he rises from the boulder and walks over to Dean, his robe billowing out gracefully behind him even without wind. He’s huge when he’s standing—at least seven feet tall, maybe more. “However, you may call me ‘Chuck’ for now.”

“…Chuck. Right.” Dean takes a small step back. The energy radiating off this man is nearly enough to force him to his knees. It isn’t malevolent, though—it’s welcoming, reassuring. Still, it hits Dean like a tidal wave the closer he is to Chuck. _Don’t think he wants to hurt me, but he still seems pretty damn dangerous…_

“Would you care to take a walk with me?” Chuck asks, gesturing to a path in the trees behind himself that Dean swears wasn’t there five seconds ago. “I have some very important things to tell you.”

Dean knows he should turn down this offer and high-tail it back to wherever he came from— _Where_ did _I come from? How did I get here?_ —but he feels compelled to nod his head and follow the other man as he leads Dean away from the clearing.

“First I have a few questions,” Dean says as they begin their journey, looking over at his companion with a curious gaze. Chuck peers back at him, face open and honest, ready to answer him. “Number one: how do you know my name?”

Chuck smiles, and the look of pure fondness in his eyes almost takes the breath right out of Dean’s lungs. No one has ever looked at him like that. “My dearest one,” the older man murmurs, “I have known you for eons. Your name is not the only thing I am aware of.”

“How?” Dean asks, awestruck and confused.

“I will tell you that at a later time,” Chuck responds kindly. Dean almost wants to force the issue, but he somehow knows that Chuck’s telling the truth, so he lets it go.

“Alright. Secondly: Is all… _this_ ”—He gestures to their surroundings with a broad sweep of his arms—“real, or is it a dream?”

“It is both,” Chuck states. He casts his silver gaze around them at the trees, the sky, the small fluorescent flowers budding up in bunches amongst the brown grass. “Your consciousness is present in this place, but you are still asleep in your home. I called you here, and you came—without realizing it. You should feel honored, Dean—you are the first living human to visit this place in thousands of years.”

Which should creep him out, but a sense of peace washes over Dean at that knowledge instead. “That’s kinda my third question—where, exactly, am I?”

Chuck smiles up at the trees as though he hasn’t even heard Dean’s question. Remaining silent, he stops walking and gently brushes his fingertips against the thin trunk of a small sapling that looks rather sickly from the lack of sunlight it’s been receiving in the shade of its taller siblings. At Chuck’s touch, it shudders once, and before Dean’s eyes it starts to grow, reaching up towards a sky it has never seen. Leaves rustle and multiply and bark crackles like it’s burning; in a matter of seconds, the tree seems to age fifty years—its trunk thickens and new branches sprout from it, breaking through the canopy above to soak in new light. Before Dean can even speak, it’s the tallest tree he can see, towering over the ones that used to dwarf it and deprive it of nourishment. It stands proud and undaunted for the first time in its life, and Chuck grins proudly up at it.

“I do enjoy that,” he says nonchalantly, “aiding the so-called ‘underdogs’ and nurturing them until they become great. Usually they can do it all on their own, but there are times when they need just a little help.” Finally, he turns his metallic gaze on Dean. “If I tell you where we are, you may not believe me at first, but I assure you that it is the truth.”

Still stunned by the miracle he’s just witnessed, Dean opens and closes his mouth several times before he can reply. “L-Lay it on me,” he stutters, wondering again if he should be afraid of this man.

“Very well. This, Dean Winchester, is a place that you will return to one day, though hopefully it will look a little different by the time you arrive.” Almost like an afterthought, Chuck brushes one of his feet through the dry grass, and it turns green again, the color spreading through the leaves like spilled paint. Dean stares as the color stretches across the forest floor as far as he can see, and Chuck continues. “It is a place you may not have believed is real, but there is no need to doubt any longer. You have seen it—seen _me_ —with your mortal eyes, a privilege very few experience. This…is Heaven.”

“Heaven?” _Fuck, am I dead?_

“No. You are very much alive, as I said before.” Dean holds back a gasp—this guy just r _ead his mind._ “I summoned your soul here temporarily so we could have a conversation. A pertinent one.”

Something clicks in Dean’s head all of a sudden, and he holds up his hand. “Wait, wait, wait.” He studies Chuck’s face closely, his eyes, the clothes he’s wearing. “If this is Heaven, and you, uh, ‘summoned’ me here, and you can make a tree grow to, like, twenty times its original height…are you…?” Awe creeps into his voice as he gazes at Chuck; he’s too afraid to finish the question because the answer, whether it’s “yes” or “no,” will be terrifying either way.

“Am I…God?” Chuck finishes the inquiry for him. “Jehovah, Yahweh, Allah? Yes.”

Dean sucks in a shocked breath and mutters, “Oh my God.” Chuck quirks an eyebrow. “Um. Sorry.”

“Our meeting here is secretive and of great importance, Dean,” Chuck— _God, holy shit_ —says solemnly. “I understand that you are overwhelmed at the moment, but I know you can focus enough to listen to my words closely.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Dean feels the strange urge to bow and kiss this man’s feet or something. “I, uh…I-I’m just a little…nervous now, is all.”

“Fear not,” God says soothingly and rests a soft hand on Dean’s cheek, looking down at him with nothing but love and reassurance in His gaze. Peace washes over Dean like a warm river and he sighs deeply, the tension flowing out of his muscles in a steady stream. He leans into the touch.

“Isn’t that what angels are s’posed to say?” he asks jokingly.

A shadow falls over God’s face at the mention of angels, and He removes his hand from Dean’s face. The peace it had brought lingers in Dean’s soul, though.

“The angels are not what they used to be,” God says, a deep sadness etching new lines around His eyes and mouth. “They fight and kill and spew insults at each other day and night, without resting, and it is all my fault. Contrary to the common Christian doctrine, I do not know everything, and I can, in fact, make mistakes on occasion."

Dean stares up at Him. “What did you do?”

“I left my throne,” God admits, and the shame and regret darkening His face is like nothing Dean’s ever seen. He remembers Cas talking about his Father, how he believed He would return one day. “Three thousand years it’s been vacant. I knew that eventually one of the Archangels would try to claim it—they are the only ones who would dare—but I never anticipated the amount of bloodshed that would accompany such an act.” He sighs deeply and fixes His gaze on the fresh green grass beneath His sandals.

Dean is shocked speechless. _If those Bible-beaters down the street from Bobby could hear this…_ He thinks of the pain Cas has experienced because of the actions of his Father and stares at this deity, who suddenly appears no less human than himself, before him. Dean shakes his head in disbelief and whispers a single word: “Why?”

“I was tired,” comes the simple explanation. “Tired of ruling, tired of taking the blame for things I had no part in causing, tired of watching thousands of my children denounce me every day. So I left, but…not before creating one final angel, one last testament to my power.” Pride sparks in His eyes briefly, and He glances up. “I made him different than the others, special, with a purpose not shared by his siblings. He was confused by it, and I left before I fully explained to him why I made him how I did. I heard his prayers, every one, asking me to return and tell him why I had made him how he is, but I could not. He is not a sapling that depends on the soil and the sun for nutrients—he has the ability to grow and prosper and discover his purpose for himself, and to let it change him. And I believe he finally has.” God turns to Dean and smiles. “This, my son, is the reason I wanted to talk to you now.”

“What have I got to do with any of that crap?” Dean asks incredulously. He’s even more confused now than he’d been when they’d started this conversation. “I’m not an angel; I know that much. Neither are any members of my family.”

“That is where you are wrong,” God tells him. “Do you remember when your mother used to sing to you as a small child, and tell you that angels were watching over you?”

A lump of sorrow rises in Dean’s throat at the thought of his mother, as usual, but now it’s tinged with fear. He nods.

“She was correct—though, there weren’t several angels protecting you. There was always one, your own Guardian Angel, and he didn’t even know of his role. He still does not know it, in fact.”

“What do you mean?”

“He saved your life. Brought you back from the brink of death with a touch of his hand and a whispered word—though unfortunately, he could not salvage your vehicle.” God nods at Dean solemnly, assuring the human that what He is saying is the truth. “Your Guardian Angel—the last angel I created before vacating my throne for three millennia, the most unique and incredible Seraph that has ever existed—lives with you now. His name is Castiel, though I believe you know him by a shorter name.”

Dean feels like laughing and crying at the same time. _Of course._ His clueless, kind friend who gives him hugs and soothes his wounds and watches TV with him at two in the morning is an _angel_ —not only that; he’s _Dean’s_ angel. The angel who’d saved him on the side of that dark county road nearly a month ago; the angel with shining black wings and ethereal blue eyes that Dean knows now were, in fact, very real. His eyes are grey now, but that was probably done to keep him from recognizing the blue ones. It all makes sense. He can’t believe it.

“I…” Words have completely failed him, and he stares into the distance blankly, his mind howling with questions and emotions he can’t even begin to explain. Everything about Cas adds up now, from his coincidental arrival right after the accident to the reaction he’d had when Dean had talked about those blue eyes beside the fire. Pieces of the puzzle are slotting together in his head, and he’s stunned at the picture they form.

When Dean’s mostly sure he’s not about to faint, he finally speaks. “So. All that talk about a—a big, religious family from ‘far away’…he was talkin’ about this place.”

“Yes,” God replies. “I am actually quite proud of how well he was able to make up that story—he could not tell you then who or what he really is, of course.”

“If he couldn’t tell me, then why’re you?”

“Because of what happened to you earlier, in that alley.” There is remorse in God’s voice as He speaks this; no doubt He feels responsible. Dean is sure that, on some level, He is. “Those men who attacked you were not men at all. They were angels, sent by their superior to kill you.”

Another piece of information that Dean had somehow already known in the back of his mind, but is still shocking to hear confirmed. The wings burned into the pavement had kinda been a tip-off. He nods slowly, taking it in. “Right. Why did they do that, exactly?”

God shakes His head, an apology in His eyes. “I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you that.”

“Why the hell not?” Dean doesn’t even register that he’s just sworn at God Himself; he just wants answers. He wants to know what this means, what he should do now that he knows what he knows. “And what has it got to do with Cas being an angel?”

“You will find all that out in due time, young one,” God promises, “it just won’t be from me.” He reaches out to rest a hand on Dean’s shoulder, but the human pulls away angrily, glaring up at him.

 “Is Cas in trouble?” he asks. “Were they tryin’ to hurt me to get to him?” Something Theo had said to him rings in his head: _“You are corrupting one of our own!”_

“Again, I regret that I cannot tell you anything about that at this moment.”

“Then what was the _point_ of this little rendezvous, then, huh?”

At this, God goes silent again. He peers at Dean for a few long seconds, then turns His mercuric gaze to the canopy of leaves above them. Taking in a deep breath, He raises one of His hands and twitches His wrist ever-so-slightly. All at once, a large, raven-black feather appears in His fingers, and He holds it up to the sunlight breaking through the leaves. It catches the light and practically glows as He tilts it at different angles, revealing every color of the spectrum hiding in its dark barbs. Dean recognizes it immediately—it’s the feather he keeps under his pillow, the one he’d been found with on the night of the car accident. _A feather from Cas’s wings. Holy shit._

“The point of this meeting, child,” God says calmly, still looking at the feather, “is to tell you as much as I possibly can about the situation you have unwittingly become involved in. The rest you will learn from others, and you will learn it very soon, I promise you.” He turns to the smaller man and blinks slowly, a strange solemnity coloring His expression and darkening His ancient eyes to the color of iridescent storm clouds. He seems suddenly much older as the lines in His relatively young face deepen. “It is also to warn you about what is to come. The one who sent the angels to eliminate you did not expect defeat, and he will not rest until he tastes victory. He will be retaliating against you—and against Castiel—as soon as he gets the chance. You will not see him coming.”

“Okay…” Dean’s frustration is quickly morphing into anxiety. His thoughts of the feather fade into the background as he tries to wrap his head around the idea that _angels are fucking_ after _him_. “Wh-What can I do?”

God smiles gently at him, as if He thinks Dean already knows the answer to that question. “You will know when the time comes, I assure you.”

Something in Dean just inherently trusts Him, so he chooses to believe what He says. “Alright.”

There’s a silence between them then. The only sound in the charged air is the light rustling of healthy and dead leaves and a distant birdcall that Dean has never heard before. God watches him with knowledgeable silver eyes and smiles down at him, as though He is pleased with His work. Dean feels oddly bashful under his actual Creator’s gaze, but at the same time, a warmth washes over him and soothes him to his bones. He is worried about what will come, but a peace that he can’t understand permeates his every cell and he finds himself ready for whatever it is that will occur when he wakes up.

“Now that I have told this to you, you may leave,” God says after another handful of moments. “I believe it is early morning in Lawrence. Your companions are missing you.”

Dean thinks of Cas. “I’m missin’ them, too,” he says softly.

“Of course.” The feather evaporates as God places His strong hands on Dean’s shoulders. “But before I send you back, there is one question I must ask you: How strong are your affections for Castiel?”

Blinking up at Him, Dean considers that prospect carefully. There’s no doubt he feels attracted to Cas—hell, they’d been centimeters away from locking lips in the kitchen after Bobby patched him up—but there’s something else there too, lingering just beneath the surface of the lust. Dean feels the strong urge to comfort Cas when he cries, to take care of him, to spend time with him in any way he possibly can. Every minute they spend together strengthens their bond; Dean can’t deny anymore that he cares very deeply for the strange grey-eyed man— _angel,_ he has to remind himself. He wants to make him moan, sure, but making him laugh seems just as rewarding. The only other time he’d felt like this was with Lisa, and he’d loved her.

 _Love?_ Can he possibly still be capable of such a thing, after all he’s been through, all he’s suffered? He’s built up walls around his heart for years and years to keep out this kind of emotion, but he’d realized weeks ago that Cas has a unique ability to chip away at that wall until it starts to splinter. Could Dean really love him?

The more he examines his and Cas’s relationship, the more he comes to realize that yes, he could, and he does. He loves Cas, is _in_ love with him, probably, and it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever experienced.

His walls crumble, and his heart is finally unguarded once again.

A weight is suddenly gone from his chest. “I…love him,” is his soft, simple response to God’s question. His lips involuntarily curl into smile around the words.

God nods in approval, a knowing almost-smirk on his face. _Guess He doesn’t actually care about sexuality. I could really teach those asshole neighbors a thing or two after this._ “Good. Remember that. Cling to it in the hours ahead. Goodbye, my son.”

Before a blinding flash of light fills Dean’s vision, he manages to choke out a sincere, “Thank you.”

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Dean blinks awake to the grey light of a hazy autumn dawn shining through the windows of his bedroom. He shifts slightly, surprised at the absence of pain he feels when he twists his torso or moves his left arm. With a confused grunt, he rolls over onto his back painlessly and runs a hand under his thin T-shirt—there’s no scrapes on his torso, no tender spots, no signs at all that he’d been in a brutal fight only hours ago. Most shockingly, when he touches the place where his left shoulder had been stabbed, there’s no wound or stitches at all. He’s completely fine.

 _The dream._ He hadn’t been in pain in the dream, either. Perhaps God had healed him in his sleep during their conversation. He had said that He’d summoned Dean’s actual soul to Heaven; heal the soul, heal the body, Dean supposes.

 _Well goodie for me,_ Dean thinks, until he remembers what he’d learned in the dream—Cas is a fallen angel, _his_ fallen angel, an angel who had saved his life. It’s mind-boggling, but the way it explains pretty much everything about Cas and his endearing strangeness is somewhat comforting.

Dean also recalls what he’d admitted in the dream: the fact that he’s in love with that fallen angel. A flare of panic alights in his stomach, only to be quenched by the same inexplicable peace he’d felt in God’s presence. _I love Cas. And from what I’ve seen, he loves me, too. So what’s there to be afraid of?_ Looking within himself, Dean realizes that the walls around his heart hadn’t just fallen in the dream—they were gone here on Earth, too. Cas had gotten rid of them, and now Dean’s guard is down for the first time in nearly a decade. Keeping it down may be difficult, but right now…he wants nothing more than to go to Cas and pour his heart out. Preferably through kisses and, er, other activities, perhaps.

Until he sees the bedside clock, that is—it’s only five thirty. Cas is probably sleeping, which is a change—he has the tendency to be a bit of an insomniac on some nights. A grand display of affection and confessions of love can wait another couple of hours if it means Cas gets some sleep, Dean figures.

He closes his eyes and drifts back into darkness, a small smile on his face. _Today’s gonna be awesome._

The warning about an angel’s vengeance striking down upon him is forgotten for the time being.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Bobby Singer awakens with a start, tossing his ratty blankets off of himself and looking around his darkened bedroom in a mild panic. Something isn’t right…he can feel it. There’s a strange energy in the air, almost electric, and it’s making the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He looks out of his door and thinks he sees the light still on in the living room flicker.

Then, just as quickly as it arrived, the energy is gone. Something goes missing in the atmosphere, leaving a barely noticeable void. Bobby shivers, though the room is warm.

The light in the living room is still on. Bobby cautiously casts his gaze around for another minute, then slowly lowers himself back down in his bed, thinking nothing of it.

He’s asleep before the lightbulb explodes.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Cas jolts awake on the living room couch to the sound of glass shattering. An age-old instinct causes him to reflexively reach for his angel blade at his hip, but he remembers before he completes the action that it isn’t there. Clenching his fist in the soft fabric of his sweatpants, he sits up and looks around the dimly-lit room.

The first thing he notices is the lamp on the table beside the couch—it’s off. He strictly remembers leaving it on when he fell asleep, expecting Dean to wake up for a late-night snack. As he leans over the armrest, he notices that the table itself is covered in broken white glass; when he removes the lampshade, it reveals the jagged remains of the lightbulb. Cas’s hands start to shake.

The next strange thing to come to his attention is the tense charge in the air—it’s frighteningly familiar, and he immediately casts his gaze around in the half-light, praying to his Father that he won’t find—

“I heard your prayer—it was…enticing.”

The Archangel looms like a threatening omen in the darkest corner of the room, partially concealed by shadows. His white suit is the same at is was in Heaven, but lightning wings are invisible; however, Cas thinks he can still sense their presence. Even from this distance, the piercing golden glow of those cold eyes cuts through Cas like a blade. His throat closes up in sheer terror.

Raphael’s lips part to reveal glittering, sharp teeth in a smile that is probably meant to look friendly. It ends up appearing sinister and cold. “Hello, Castiel,” he all but purrs in his smooth bass voice.

It takes two tries for Cas to get words out of his own dry mouth. “I-I do not go by that name here,” he rasps, voice still rough with sleep.

“What does it matter? You shall not be here for much longer.” Raphael slowly steps out of the darkness and passes through a beam of morning sunshine coming through a window. “I have come to collect you, brother.”

Suddenly, Cas can move again. He tosses the blanket off himself and stands up from the couch as Raphael approaches him. “But the agreement—you’re four days early.”

The Archangel merely shrugs. “I decided that I had waited long enough.” He looks curiously at the discarded blanket and bends over to scoop it up in his ebony hands. “Strange,” he murmurs, “the concept of sleep. I am not sure how you have been able to accomplish it each night for nearly an entire month.”

“It is…soothing,” Cas replies, mildly confused at this turn in the conversation.

“I cannot understand how.” As Cas watches, the blanket in Raphael’s fingers bursts into flame. The ex-Seraph gasps in horror—that had been one of Mary Winchester’s crocheted blankets, preserved through all these years by her sons and their surrogate father. Dean had loved that blanket. Cas had felt honored to even touch it, let alone sleep beneath it.

How a single strand of yarn stitched into a large rectangle could bring an age-old creature to tears is unknown to Cas, but it happens to him anyway. He watches the blackened remains of the blanket fall to the carpet, still smoldering, and shakes his head in disbelief. “You really are a monster,” he growls bitterly, swiping at his damp eyes with the back of his hand. All the anger and indignation he’s felt for this unholy Celestial comes to the surface in a great surge, and suddenly he can’t keep quiet. “First you ensnare me in an unfair ‘deal’ that you knew full well I would not turn down, _then_ you send your lowly soldiers to hurt—to _kill_ —the one person on this planet I cannot survive without, and now you destroy his precious property without a single _glimmer_ of remorse in your eyes? How can you be so heartless, so close-minded, so… _evil!”_

“I. Am. Not. _Evil_.” As if to demonstrate this, Raphael flicks his wrist and Cas is sent flying back against the nearest wall, crashing into a table and slamming his jaw on the edge of a large bookcase in the process. His head spins as he drags himself into a sitting position on the floor and coughs, unsurprised at the metallic taste in his mouth.

Raphael approaches to stand above him like the hooded executioner in the pirate movie Cas had watched with Dean last week. He is calmly menacing. “I am just, and I reward those who are worthy of reward,” he says, smiling almost kindly and crouching down to meet Cas’s lowered gaze. “You, Castiel, are worthy of reward. Come with me now, and I will give it to you.”

There is no hesitation before Cas straightens up and spits a gruel-like mix of saliva and blood in his brother’s face. The Archangel recoils with a disgusted sound, and Cas smirks. He can feel the pure hatred burning in his own eyes and hopes Raphael can see and feel it clearly. “I do not have to go anywhere with you,” he says lowly. “I have completed the task you laid out for me—I have found someone to love. I am staying here with him, and there is _nothing_ you can do that will take me away from him—not now, not four days from now, not ever.”

Raphael turns back to the ex-angel slowly. His face is blank, but the slight sliver of warmth in his eyes completely faded. There is nothing left there but unfettered rage and bloodlust, and Cas is fully prepared to take on all of it. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach that this elder angel intends to do more in this house than simply collect a prize.

After a moment, Raphael finally speaks. “There is but one element missing from your supposed ‘completion’ of your task, young one,” he says in a threatening tone, “and it is the most important element of them all.” Willing the crimson mess to disappear from his skin and clothing, the Archangel reaches out and grabs Cas by the loose collar of his sleep shirt to drag him closer. Their noses are nearly touching and their dueling glares clash heatedly as Cas stares at him in defiance.

“I am missing nothing,” he says through his teeth, his bruised jaw aching from the movement.

“Oh, but you _are_.” A rumbling, cruel laugh bubbles up from the depths of Raphael’s chest as he grins smugly. “It is the one thing that can unerringly prove you have indeed found ‘a love to rival your own’—a confession.”

 _Confession. An unprompted mutual admission, a declaration, of the shared love—genuine and honest. Of course._ Cas tries to keep the sudden panic he is feeling out of his expression.

“And I happen to know that neither you nor Dean have voiced anything of that sort,” Raphael says, responding to Cas’s silent thoughts. “It is true that you have both complimented each other’s appearance, and have come close to acting upon these feelings you _supposedly_ share, but that is far from sufficient.” His grip on Cas’s collar tightens. “Thus, you are mine again, and I will be bringing you back where you belong—among your own kind, fighting as a soldier for the only virtuous party in the War, _for eternity._ ”

“No,” Cas mutters as Raphael hoists him to his feet. He struggles against the stronger creature as effectively as he can, but hopelessness is winning out in his mind and actions. “No, no! I won’t go with you, _NO!”_ His bare feet scrabble fruitlessly against the dusty hardwood floor and his hands claw at Raphael’s in vain. He can’t leave this place, can’t leave Dean, can’t leave his family. His _true_ family. The one he’d sworn not to abandon.

Raphael cannot seem to keep from cackling. “Where is the wrath you so vehemently promised me?” he mocks. “The fury? The fight? I see none of that here! You _have_ given up, haven’t you?”

That strong hand shifts to wrap and squeeze around Cas’s throat. He huffs out a shallow breath and tries to wrench the fingers from around his neck.

“You truly are pathetic in human form, Castiel.” There is pity in Raphael’s voice now. “Utterly without use. But fear not—you will be restored to your angelic status soon enough, once you are home.”

“No!” comes the hoarse reply. Darkness is starting to spread like murky ink over the edges of Cas’s vision as his brain becomes more and more oxygen deprived. _Must stay awake. For Dean. Have to stay awake._ He wishes with all of his soul, all of his strength, that Bobby or Dean were here with that stolen angel blade. He’s becoming dizzier and weaker with every failed attempt at a breath, and hope seems long gone.

A distant, electric hum fills the air. Cas knows it’s Raphael’s wings preparing for flight. Closing his tear-filled grey eyes, the ex-Seraph resigns himself to his fate.

_I…I’m sorry, Dean…Goodbye._

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

“What—who in the ever-lovin’ _fuck_ are you?”

_Oh, Father, thank you._

The iron grip around Cas’s throat eases enough for him to suck in several loud gulps of precious air as both captor and captive turn—one in relief, one in confused anger—to face the new arrival.

Bobby Singer stands in the hallway leading from the living room to his bedroom, carrying nothing but a small wooden baseball bat for a weapon. He is dressed in a thin, worn white tee and red plaid boxers, and the expression on his face is something between disgruntled and murderous.

In short, he is the most valiant and welcome sight Cas has ever beheld.

“Bobby, g…get Dean,” Cas wheezes urgently, and Raphael laughs.

“Do you really think that human will be able to help you? He is injured!”

Cas ignores him, eyes still fixed on Bobby. He just has the strangest sense that Dean needs to be here right now. “Go!” he demands with a wave of his arm, and the older man immediately complies.

Once his friend has ascended the staircase, Cas meets Raphael’s furious auric gaze once again. “My home is right here,” he says, “and so is my true family. With them behind me, _you_ will be the one Heaven deems ‘pathetic.’”

With a well-aimed jab of his knee and some acrobatic twists, Cas manages to wrench himself free of Raphael’s grip for a moment. He turns to face the seething being that was once his brother and braces himself for the next attack, knowing it will not be as merciful as the last.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

“ _Dean!_ I know you’re prob’ly sore, but you better get yer ass outta that bed _this fuckin’ instant_ or I’ll skin ya alive!”

“Nnngrmph,” Dean mumbles in response, slowly returning to wakefulness. His gritty eyelids slowly open and he catches sight of the bedside clock—it’s barely seven a.m.—as he rolls over onto his back, confused. Bobby’s never up this early. “Whazzit? Wha’s goin’ on?”

“There’s some maniacal sonuvabitch in the livin’ room and he’s got Cas by the throat!”

Just like that, Dean’s completely awake. He sits up and throws the blankets off of himself, and every scene of his dream rushes back into his memory with painful clarity, God’s words a funeral dirge in his ears: _“The one who sent those angels to eliminate you_ _will be retaliating against you—and against Castiel—as soon as he gets the chance. You will not see him coming.”_

“Fuck!” he exclaims and leaps out of the warmth of his bed, hitting the hardwood floor running.

“Hey—Dean!” Bobby calls from behind him. “Don’t be runnin’ like that! Yer hurt!”

“Yeah, not anymore, long story.” Dean catapults down the staircase as fast as he can, landing on the floor at the bottom with a _thud_ that shakes the whole house. Somehow he knows what he needs before he even thinks about it: the strange blade he’d been stabbed with yesterday. Before going to the living room, Dean makes a sharp right and heads to Bobby’s weapons room.

He nearly breaks the old wooden door off its hinges in his haste to fling it open. _Please be here please be here pleasepleaseplease…_ Luckily, he only has to scan the different shelves and wall hangings for a few heartbeats before he finds it resting in a grouping of uncategorized knives and swords. Cas had called it a sword, and had seemed pretty familiar with handling it when he’d twirled it in his hand. _It’s definitely an angel weapon,_ Dean thinks, _and if it killed that Malachi guy, it might work against whoever’s going after Cas._

Snatching the weapon up off the shelf and testing the weight of it in his hand, Dean turns on his heel and rushes towards the living room. The only thing on his mind is saving the man—the angel—he’s grown to love, and he’ll stop at nothing to do it.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

_“Cas!”_

The sound of Dean’s furious-yet-worried voice nearly forces relieved tears out of Cas’s eyes. He glances over to the doorway, face bruised and chest heaving, and sees Bobby in the doorway. Dean is standing there behind him in a T-shirt and sweatpants, fury darkening his eyes and turning them a dangerous shade of emerald. He’s blessedly uninjured, somehow, and is wielding an angel blade—the one he’d been attacked with earlier—which he appears desperate to use.

“Dean!” Cas exclaims hoarsely before he is backhanded across the face by a seething Archangel. He drops to the floor quite quickly and Raphael leans over him, yanking him up by the collar of his shirt.

“Where did he get that blade?” growls the elder angel.

Cas manages a spiteful, bloody grin, and is about to reply when Dean does it for him.

“Snatched it from one of your angel lackeys,” the mechanic says, stepping fully into the room, and Raphael’s head snaps up towards him. Cas can hear the smirk in his voice. “Y’know, the ones you sent to kill me. What were their names…oh, yeah. Theo and Malachi. Two of ‘em came here, but I think only one went back, right?”

“Insolent _maggot!”_ Raphael drops Cas on the ground and spins around to face Dean.

“Sounds like you’re the maggot in this situation, man,” Dean replies matter-of-factly. Cas can’t see past the couch, but he can picture the way Dean’s jaw clenches in anger. “I mean, what kind of Archangel tries to steal the freakin’ throne of God?”

Raphael is shocked into silence, and Cas is merely shocked. _How in Father’s name…?_ He gets himself back to his feet and fixes his friend with a confused look. “Dean, how—?”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Bobby asks, and Dean turns around to face him.

“Go somewhere else, Bobby. This is between the three of us.”

“But I—”

“You can’t help here,” Dean insists with his voice and face. “You gotta go. Actually, the electric’s probably messed up with this guy in the house, so the phones aren’t working—why don’t you drive up to town and get a few squad cars and ambulances down here? I got a feeling we’re gonna need ‘em.”

Bobby just stares at him for several long seconds, clearly not wanting to leave the side of his surrogate son. But Dean is unmoving. Finally, the older man pats him on the shoulder and reluctantly heads towards the front door. With a final worried glance over his shoulder, he shuts it behind himself.

Seconds after an antique car engine is heard starting up, the Archangel finds his voice again, and it’s enraged. “ _Who_ told you all of that?” he roars. The sound of glass shattering echoes throughout the house as every lightbulb explodes. He looks back at Cas, golden eyes smoldering with an untamable fire. “You would _dare_ speak of that with him? That is in direct breach of our contract!”

“Raphael—”

“It wasn’t him!” Dean shouts, obviously trying to draw the attention away from Cas. He takes a couple steps forward, holding his angel blade in front of himself in defense. “God—your Dad, the one who’s been ‘missing’ for a few millennia—came to me in a dream and told me everything. About you, the angels, and…about Cas.”

 _He knows…_ Cas is suddenly short-of-breath. _Does that mean he…he really saw Father? Spoke to Him?_ A wave of light-headedness comes over him and sways he on his feet. Tears threaten beneath his closed eyelids and he tries to calm his racing heart. _There’s no conceivable way…but then, how would he have this information? He must have…_

“That is impossible!” Raphael’s energy spikes again and nearly knocks both Cas and Dean over. “No one has gazed upon His face in thirty-five hundred years!”

“Well then I guess that makes me special,” Dean says with a shrug. He briefly shifts his gaze from the Archangel to Cas, and the fury washes out of his eyes for a few seconds. “Also…He says He’s really sorry, Cas.”

 _It’s true. Father lives._ The ex-Seraph can’t help but smile and nod, a pair of tears slipping down his cheeks. Dean may know he’s an angel now, but he doesn’t seem to be reacting aversely to it. The softness his eyes have always held when looking at Cas is still present—he still sees Cas as a friend and not an unreachable, terrifying creature; Cas wants nothing more in this moment than to run to him and embrace him for hours.

“And, uh…thanks for, y’know, saving my life. I know it was you now.”

The idea of kissing the breath out of Dean’s lungs briefly flickers through Cas’s mind. He can barely restrain himself from sprinting across the room, Raphael and his wrath be damned.

Unfortunately, Raphael is still with them, and he is growing more and more furious with every passing moment. He does not seem to have heard any of this exchange between the two men. “I cannot believe He chose to speak to a _hairless ape_ before coming to _me!”_ he spits, clenching his fists. He begins to shake with rage and light shines from his eyes, nearly blinding the humans around him, and a high-pitched whine permeates the air. Cas realizes with a pang of horror what is about to happen, and he shuts his eyes and covers his ears with his hands, yelling for Dean to do the same.

Windows in every wall of the house shatter, and shattered glass rains down onto the floor and furniture in the living room. Cas winces as he feels a few shards catch the skin of his right arm, and carefully doesn’t move his feet for fear of stepping in the wrong place. A sonic wave of sheer power radiates out from the place Raphael is standing, nearly a physical force in itself, and Cas cannot stay on his feet. He collapses onto the floor, glass cutting into the flesh of his back through his thin T-shirt. He cries out, but it isn’t heard over the sound of Celestial power.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it’s over.

Even when the metallic stench of burning electrical wires has mostly faded from the air, Cas doesn’t want to open his eyes. He can hear the crackling, can see the bright blue-white glow through his tightly closed eyelids. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He should’ve just gone with his brother without a struggle when he’d had the chance.

Now, he feels like he’s been dropped onto a Heavenly battlefield. And there are always casualties there.

“Holy… _fuck._ ” Dean’s awed exclamation finally prompts Cas’s eyelids to flicker open, and he’s met with exactly the sight he’d anticipated: Raphael is now standing in the middle of the living room, fists clenched, eyes glowing, with two massive, spark-ridden wings arcing from his back in twitchy bolts of blue lightning. The leather of the couches blackens and chars where the electric plumage so much as brushes against it. Terror clenches around Cas’s heart like a cold, dead hand.

When he seems to have gotten his voice back, Dean asks shakily, “A-Aren’t angel wings s’posed to have, uh, _feathers?”_

“Raphael’s are…different,” is the only explanation Cas can give before he is whipped across the chest by a streak of blue light. It burns quickly through the fabric of his shirt and he screams hoarsely as his skin is scalded by the heat; he thinks he hears Dean shout his name. A horrific red slash is left blistering on his skin, stretching from his right shoulder to just beneath his left pectoral. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, as though Raphael’s pseudo-wings are made of fire rather than sparks. Shaking and gasping with pain, Cas falls onto his back on the ground, writhing and trying to clutch at his wound, which only worsens it.

Raphael leans over him, casting a dark shadow across his blurred vision. A laugh rumbles from the depths of his chest; Cas can almost see the smug grin contorting his lips. “You are so much easier to injure as a mortal, Castiel,” he intones darkly. Seemingly as an afterthought, he raises one foot and rests it gently on the burn he’s inflicted before pressing down with a vicious force. As Cas cries out and shuts his eyes tightly against the pain exploding throughout his torso, the Archangel adds, “Much easier to control, as well.”

“You sonuva _bitch!_ ” Past the blood rushing in his own ears, Cas hears Dean’s voice ring through the room as he draws nearer to the brawling once-siblings. So brave. So protective of his family, no matter the odds. _Be careful, you imbecile,_ Cas thinks in his direction.

“Oh, do not bore me with your inane insults, Dean Winchester.” Raphael lifts his weight off of Cas’s chest and turns to face his meager opponent. “I could smite you where you stand before you take your next step.”

Breathless and in agony, Cas manages to haltingly push himself up on his elbows so he can see them. “Dean,” he rasps, “do not challenge him. He is far too powerful for either of us.” As much as he is loath to admit it, Cas knows it’s the truth. If one of them tries to confront Raphael, there will be death.

“Stay outta this, Cas,” Dean says lowly, green eyes fixed on the Archangel’s impassive face. Even when overflowing with anger, those radiant eyes still leave Cas absolutely mesmerized with their beauty. The light from Raphael’s wings reflects in their grassy depths, and for a moment Cas pretends it’s the soft glow of a sunrise.

He is so deeply, so completely, in love with this man—this kind, loyal, strong, courageous, beautiful man who is fascinating on more levels than Cas can list. The affection that slams into him as he stares in awe at Dean’s set jaw, firm glare, and determined posture nearly chokes him. _He would die for me,_ Cas realizes.

At the same instant, he realizes he would do the same.

It’s something he’s always known about himself, really, since the moment he first met the alluring man with the striking, cilantro-colored eyes. Ever since he’d saved Dean’s life on the side of that dark road that night nearly a month ago, Cas has felt a strong protective instinct towards him that has not subsided at all in the past three weeks. If anything, it’s become stronger, more formidable. Cas feels like he could—and would—defy Heaven, Hell, and everything in between if it meant protecting or saving the existence of this one man.

A sharp inhale is sucked into his lungs as he realizes something else that should have been clear to him from the very beginning: those are the instincts of a Guardian Angel, creatures that have only been fabled to actually still exist. In the time before the War, Cas knows, some angels were assigned humans that they would assist and protect until that human’s soul left its mortal coil. That had been considered one of the most sacred, important tasks that an angel could be rewarded with. They were ordered directly by God, which even back then was a rarity.

Father had ceased this practice for some unknown reason centuries before Cas’s birth. And when He disappeared, there had been no one left to carry it on, so it died off altogether—along with the few past participants who remained.

 _“_ _Remember: I have a purpose for you that is greater than you could ever imagine.”_ Those were some of the last words God has spoken to Cas—to any angel—before He had gone away. _“Where there is uniformity, you stand out. In time you will know why.”_

Blue eyes. Strange black wings. An expansive, almost human heart. These are the “different” attributes that God had been referring to—and all of those attributes had been seen or experienced by Dean on the night of the car accident. They had allowed Dean to remember Cas, to recognize him, if only vaguely. Those “mutations” that Cas had loathed for millennia had been the very things that had brought him to Dean Winchester, and have kept him by the man’s side for this long.

_I am the last Guardian Angel. I was meant to find Dean and save his life that night, and I did. But why?_

The answer, of course, is obvious after a heartbeat of contemplation.

_So I could meet him. So I could forge that agreement and become human, just to live beside him for a time. So I could get to know him, watch television with him, laugh with him. Fall in love with him._

_My special purpose was to Fall from Grace and fall in love with Dean Winchester._

It is still not entirely clear to Cas if that is the full extent of his purpose, but he can feel in his heart that it is one of the most important aspects of it, if not _the_ single most important.

It feels as though his entire existence has been leading up to this very moment of revelation, this mere speck in the expanse of Time’s boundless fabric, when Cas puts together every piece of his past to form this sudden, clear image. He feels empowered, despite his weakened, utterly powerless state. With a single look at Dean, Cas finally knows a large part of why he was created the way he is, and it’s like being reborn.

All of this occurs in his mind in a span of about three full seconds before he is snapped back to reality. “Yes, _Cas_ ,” Raphael says with a smirk, turning back to face the ex-angel. “Your pet seems perfectly content in fighting this battle for you. Why don’t you let him?” The bloodlust is plain in those golden eyes; the Archangel is clearly desperate to kill this man—this lowly human who had been given the opportunity to speak to God Himself before Raphael had—and will clearly stop at nothing before he accomplishes that dark task.

Cas— _Castiel,_ Angel of the Lord and Guardian of Dean Winchester’s soul—simply won’t allow it.

“No.” The ex-Seraph bites his split lip as he hauls himself to his feet, ignoring the searing pain throbbing outwards from his chest. He straightens his back as much as he can and fixes Raphael with the coldest, most determined glare he can manage. If he still had his wings, he would be puffing them up and spreading them out at his sides in a massive obsidian halo, a show of dominance that most angels, no matter their rank, would cower at.

Dean looks anxious and frantic all at once. “Cas, what’re you doing?”

Cas just looks at him, attempting a small smile, and hopes that all the devotion he feels towards Dean is visible in his eyes. His reply is simple and truthful: “What I was made to do.”

Something in Dean’s expression breaks a little. He blinks a few times in desperate confusion, then just shakes his head. “No, man, just—don’t, okay? You’re hurt, and—”

 _“Enough!”_ Raphael bellows, and flares his wings out in wide glowing arcs. The electric buzzing emanating from them increases dramatically in volume and strength as he turns to face Cas. “You wish to oppose me in your current state? Have you no sense?”

Cas considers that question for several seconds before shrugging his shoulders in a motion learned from Dean. “I have only determination, free will, and love on my side,” he says, locking eyes for the briefest of moments with Dean. “Those things are not typically associated with sensibleness.”

The astonished look that passes briefly over Dean’s face at the mention of love does not go unnoticed.

Raphael glances between the two of them, and something dangerously familiar to Cas sparks in his eyes. The Archangel’s face becomes immediately cold and expressionless, apart from a barely-noticeable smile. Cas knows from experience that nothing good can come out of a smile like that from Raphael.

“So, Dean,” he asks, still watching Cas, “while I assume you have been made aware of the… _situation_ in Heaven, are you entirely aware of Castiel’s plight? The agreement he made with me? Why he is so intent on protecting you above all else?”

Dean blinks, glances at Cas, and shakes his head.

“Well, then. Before you die, I suppose you have a right to know what you will be dying for.” In an effortless move that he could have employed earlier, Raphael flicks his wrist and sends Dean flying across the room to the far wall, suspending him several feet off the ground. The human grunts in surprise and struggles against the invisible force holding him in place, but he manages to keep his grip on the angel blade in his hand.

Cas takes a few steps towards his brother. “Please,” he rasps, struggling against a sudden wave of pain from the burn across his chest. He is cut short as Raphael forces him back against the wall behind him, putting him in the same predicament as Dean.

“Oh, no, Castiel. I think your charge needs to have some of the pieces of this puzzle put in place for him—he clearly does not have them all.” Raphael turns away from the ex-Seraph to approach a very confused, gasping Dean. “You see, young Castiel was created differently than the other angels—with different eyes, wings, and emotions. Human emotions. He has had a…a crack in his chassis, if you will, from the start. Not surprising then that something about Earth—free will—fascinated him and attracted him, so much so that he decided he would risk going against everything he believes him just for a chance to live here for a time, as a mortal.”

Dean takes a moment to absorb this information, then meets Cas’s gaze from across the room. There is no disgust, no disdain in his expression, just honest curiosity. “Why?” he asks.

Raphael nods. “Why, indeed. Why don’t you answer him, brother?”

Cas isn’t even looking at Raphael anymore. His eyes are fixed on Dean, as though there is no distance between them at all. “I met you,” he says softly, and it’s like a physical weight has been lifted off his shoulders with that admission. “You…You were watching the sunset, alone, in that field, which is something I would do myself during my visits here. I wasn’t visible to you, but…you were the only thing visible to me, even then. Your strength, your soul, your voice…your eyes…” His voice trails off and he feels a faint blush rising on his face.

Dean blinks at him in awe as realization hits him. “You...Fell for _me?”_

 _In more ways than one._ Cas just nods. He opens his mouth to say the three words that sum up his emotions perfectly, hoping that Dean will return them, but Raphael cuts him off: “He Fell because he saw something in you that other humans simply didn’t have, in his eyes. And he saved your life that night, as well—when he returned to Heaven afterwards, the stench of your automobile was clinging to him. I saw how unhappy he was, and in my infinite mercy I gave him a choice, which is what he craved above all else: he could remain in Heaven and never set foot on Earth again, or he could have a chance to find his place on Earth—with you. If he failed to accomplish that, I would take him back, and he would fight on my side of the Civil War—the one he opposes—for eternity. He is a very skilled fighter, you see, and though he was always a bit… _strange_ as an angel, as a soldier he simply could not be matched.”

Dean glares at the Archangel so vehemently that Cas half-hopes flames will erupt from his eyes. “And now you’re here to take him back,” he growls, “’cuz you don’t think he’s found his place here.”

“Oh, I _know_ he hasn’t. Because there is no tangible proof.” Raphael raises his hand and curls his fingers slowly into a fist; against the wall, Dean coughs and gasps, squeezing his eyes shut in pain and kicking the wall weakly.

“Stop!” Cas shouts, hurt by Dean’s pain. “Leave him alone; I am the one you came here for!”

“That is true,” Raphael muses, “but he is the only thing that could prevent me from having you, therefore I must dispose of him first.” Wings flaring, Raphael begins a slow walk towards Dean. His own angel blade slips into his hand from his jacket sleeve, and it glints in the early-morning light as he moves.

“What?! Wh-Why?” Dean’s struggling as much as he can, but Raphael only strengthens his hold as he comes closer. He looks desperately up at Cas. “What does he mean?”

“You have to love me!” Cas cries, and Dean freezes. Something in his eyes changes, but Cas can’t identify exactly what. He keeps speaking past the increasing pressure on his sore ribcage as Raphael’s wings spark. “That was the agreement! I-If I could find someone who loved as I loved, freely and blindly, I could stay with them. I’d planned to explore throughout Lawrence when I first arrived, but, Dean…after a mere few days with you, I knew I wouldn’t have to look anywhere else.” He tries to relay through his eyes the words he knows Raphael will not permit him to speak out loud, transmitting the message from his heart to Dean’s.

It must work, because Dean’s expression softens and tears spring to his green eyes. “Cas.” The word is spoken on a shallow exhale, and the emotion alone tells Cas all he needs to know 

But that apparently isn’t good enough for Raphael. “Silence, the two of you!” he bellows, and the pressure on Cas’s sternum doubles to keep him quiet. He turns back to Dean. “There, maggot. Now you know the story. And this is how it ends.” His steps quicken and his wings singe every piece of furniture they brush against as he stalks across the living room towards his prey. The angel blade in his hand is raised above his head; Cas knows what’s about to happen. He can picture the way the metal will slice through the flesh and muscle of Dean’s strong chest to pierce his heart, can almost hear the final, wheezing breath that will force itself out of Dean’s lungs—

 _No._ He will not allow any harm to come to Dean Winchester.

Clenching his teeth and balling his hands into fists, Cas fights with all the strength left in his battered human body against Raphael’s hold. Focusing all his efforts on breaking free, his thoughts run wild in his head.

_Sam. What will Sam do without his older brother, the one who’s cared for him his entire life?_

To his shock, one of his shaking arms pulls away from the wall. He keeps his furious gaze fixed on Raphael’s back.

_Bobby. What will become of him if the man he considers his oldest son is killed?_

Cas feels his other arm come forward, and it’s getting easier to breathe. These thoughts seem to be strengthening him, motivating him. He keeps thinking, fighting as hard and fast as he can, his gaze now flitting between Raphael and Dean’s increasingly terrified face.

_All the clients of Singer Salvage who depend on Dean’s work—who will be able to repair their engines like he can?_

_Father—what will become of His great plan for me if my charge, the one I was created to protect and love, no longer lives?_

_Me—what will I do without Dean?_

_Who will watch reruns of old television shows with me in the early hours of the morning?_ Cas loudly inhales his first full breath in over five minutes. A strange presence surrounds him, aiding his escape. Raphael stops in his tracks at the sound.

 _Who will help me clean up the milk I spill in the kitchen?_ Cas’s feet touch the ground. Raphael turns.

 _Who will soothe me when I cry?_ His torso breaks free. _Who will teach me more about human food?_ His arms drop to his sides, sore but unbound. _Who will I confide in?_ He kicks his legs out, and his waist comes free, too. _Who will I love?_

_Who will love me?_

“How—!” Raphael’s incredulous snarl is the only thing Cas can hear over the loud thoughts in his head as he finally staggers away from the wall, breathing heavily, barely standing upright. “That is impossible! You’re just a man!” The Archangel is distracted from his task for the moment, which is not a common occurrence at all, and Cas immediately takes advantage of that.

The presence is still assisting him, urging him on with unseen hands and silent words of encouragement. Cas can’t hear it, but for some reason he can sense it, permeating the air around him and feeding his broken body with resilience.

Mustering all his remaining strength, he growls in a surprisingly strong voice, “I am the man who beat you.”

Raphael is speechless, his lightning wings flaring out in unpredictable arcs in his confusion, as Cas charges him.

The ex-Seraph hardly hears Dean’s desperate call of his name as he collides with Raphael, sending them both collapsing to the floor in a frenzied heap. The pain from the burn across his chest is acute, but he presses on, careful to avoid touching the electric wings as he throws punch after punch at Raphael’s face in a futile attempt to throw him off long enough to grab hold of his weapon. In return, he is rewarded with several blows to his own face, leaving more bruises and gouges than before, but he is not thrown off. He needs to get the angel blade out of Raphael’s hand, needs to use it against him before it is used against Dean. Despite the almost certain hopelessness of the situation, Cas fights with Dean’s panicked shouts distant noises in his ears.

Within seconds, of course, Cas finds himself pinned by the wrists and ankles to the floor beneath Raphael. He’s lost, he knows he has, but he’s bought Dean time to escape like he did himself. As he continues to struggle with Raphael the only thing in his line of vision, he hopes Dean takes the opportunity.

“Did you really think you can actually defeat an _Archangel—_ defeat _God_ —in your pathetic state, you worthless whelp?” Raphael spits in Cas’s bloodied face as he leans over him threateningly. “You are not, nor will you _ever_ be, ‘the man who defeated me.’ And if that was truly the best show of fighting ability you have, I will not regret my next actions at all.” He raises his blade.

 _“NO!”_ Dean screams hoarsely. Cas closes his eyes. _Goodbye, my love._

Being stabbed doesn’t hurt nearly as much as Cas had anticipated, at first. The blade merely plunges smoothly into the center of his chest, forcing a gasp out of him, but the pain doesn’t arrive in full force until several seconds after. Raphael gives it a wicked twist before he withdraws it with a flourish and a malevolent grin. Cas can’t move. He can only gasp and suck in shallow, pained breaths as Raphael stands up with a dark laugh.

“You see, Castiel?” the Archangel says, leering down at his most recent kill. “The moment you decided to challenge me was the moment you lost. You would have been a good soldier, but if this is the sort of respect you give to your superiors, I am glad that I—”

A vague sense of shock is all Cas feels as he watches the bloodied end of an angel blade burst from the front of Raphael’s throat. The Archangel’s golden eyes go wide and he gasps wetly, blood and glowing Grace pooling in his mouth and spilling out onto his white clothes.

“He _did_ beat you,” Dean’s tear-filled voice says from behind him. “So you can shut the _fuck_ up and go to hell.”

Seconds later, blinding blue-white light pours from Raphael’s mouth, and eyes, and his wings flare out wider than Cas has ever seen them stretch. He manages to close his eyes just as the explosion happens, and when it’s over, the limp, dead body of Raphael collapses to Cas’s left.

Immediately, Dean shoves it aside and drops to his knees beside Cas. “You idiot,” he mutters through his teeth, his shaking hands hovering uselessly over Cas’s prone body. “You huge, self-sacrificing, thick-headed, feather-brained, angel _idiot._ ”

The ex-angel is relieved that he managed to break Raphael’s hold, and amazed that he—an ordinary human—managed to kill the very successor of God.

Well, come to think of it, Dean is hardly ordinary at all.

“S…Sorry,” he manages to say past a sudden flood of blood to his mouth. He lets it dribble out down the side of his face to the floor. A round of hoarse coughs racks through his body, sending bolts of pain throughout his torso with every jarring movement.

Dean finally settles his hands on Cas’s blistered chest, right over the stab wound, barely pressing down. “Why’d you do that, you fucking dumbass? You knew you couldn’t beat him, and you still—just, _why?”_

Cas figures that in his final minutes, honesty is important. “It’s what I was c-created to do, Dean,” he gasps, staring into the eyes of the man he loves more than anything. “Had t-to…protect you. ‘M your Guardian Angel.” Another mess of coughs rattles him momentarily. “I’m s-sorry.”

“I’ll forgive you if you don’t fucking die on me.” Dean’s bloody hands come around to frame Cas’s bruised face. He smiles waveringly, tears overflowing from his eyes. Even in sorrow, they are truly mesmerizing. “Just hang on for me, okay? Bobby should be back with the cops and some medics any minute now, please, just—”

“Dean. St-Stop.” Cas’s vision is fading rapidly, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Each inhale drains him of so much energy, and the pain…he can hardly think past how much his entire body hurts. _So this is what it’s like to die as a human. Not as peaceful as I pictured._

“What? No, n-no, I’m not gonna stop, I…” Frantically, as if a trance has been broken, Dean pulls his shirt over his head and presses it firmly to the wound in Cas’s chest, eliciting a broken moan from the other man. “The bleeding’ll stop soon, jus’ gotta keep pressure on it…”

“D-Dean. It’s over.”

“No! It ain’t over ‘til I say it’s over, alright? You’re gonna make it, you’ll be just fine, c’mon, Cas—”

_“Please.”_

Something about the way Cas says it must snap Dean back to attention, because his frenzied talking and pressing halts momentarily as he simply stares into Cas’s eyes with a hopeless desperation in his own. He lets out a dry, almost pained sob, and whimpers, “You can’t leave.”

Cas has never heard Dean’s voice sound like that. He’s heard it raised in anger, bubbling with a laugh, but never drowning in misery like this. It nearly drives Cas to tears. “Don’t…want to,” he chokes out, and he really means it. “But…I’m d-dying. For you. J-Just like I was meant to.”

Dean shakes his head in utter denial, his face crumbling. “I’m not worth this,” he says.

“Worth _more_ than this,” Cas wheezes. “So much m-more.” It’s the truth, and he prays that one day Dean will know it as such. He can barely make out the beautiful lines and contours of Dean’s face anymore, but he still reaches up with one hand to brush his fingers along the pattern of freckles he’s memorized over the course of his three weeks here. He feels hot tears against the pads of his fingertips and brushes them away weakly.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped closed until he hears Dean shouting at him to open them. He does, but realizes with a vague sense of alarm that his vision is now clouded over almost completely with a whitish-grey haze. He feels dangerously dizzy, despite the fact that he’s lying horizontally, and he can feel the pool of his own blood spreading beneath his body, soaking the back of his shirt. The pain is pretty much completely gone now—his whole body is numb and tingling with a sort of disconnectedness, like he’s already nothing more than an intangible spirit. His time is approaching quickly, he realizes. He has to tell Dean, has to say it, he _has_ to—

“I love you.” The words are so quiet that Cas can hardly hear them himself, but judging from the hitch of breath, Dean heard them just fine. “D-Dean Winchester, I…I love you.”

_At last._

Once that is said, Cas relaxes. Darkness and warmth envelop his body, lulling him to an eternal sleep. The last things he hears are Dean’s heartbroken voice screaming his name, and a deep, soothing voice calling it.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Castiel dies.

Somewhere in Heaven, a flower wilts.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

“No.” Dean stares down at the still, blank face of the fallen angel who has just sacrificed everything for him. “No, nononono, Cas! _Castiel!”_ He shakes Cas’s body in an effort to wake him, presses down on the gaping hole in his chest again, but nothing works. He isn’t moving. He’s gone.

Just like that, the best goddamn thing that ever happened to Dean is gone.

The world crashes down around him in deafening silence, leaving nothing but him and the cooling body of his Guardian Angel in the center of the chaos. He can’t even hear his own screams as he buries his face in Cas’s still stomach, pulling his own hair, sobbing mindlessly in the throes of a grief he has never even come close to experiencing before. It feels like his own soul has been ripped out of him and will never be replaced, which is fucking _good_ , because he doesn’t _want_ it replaced; he wants it _back,_ wants it in the form of a socially-awkward ex-angel with perpetual bedhead and the most incredible grey eyes the universe has ever known. He wants the ex-angel he’d loved back.

_He didn’t even get to hear me say it._

That’s the worst part.

Suddenly desperate to say those words he’s only voiced a handful of times before, Dean lifts his head and stares down into Cas’s open, sightless eyes. Past the largest lump in his throat he’s ever felt, he chokes out, “I-I love you, too.”

It’s as if the floodgates open. “Cas, oh, Cas, Castiel, I love you, I do, I love you, I loveyouloveyouloveyou _please,_ please come back to me, I-I love you, so fucking much, oh God, please…” He repeats these words over and over, weeping, praying to whoever’s listening that he’ll get a response of some kind. When he doesn’t after five full minutes, he gives up. For a moment.

In a last act of sheer desperation, Dean places his hands on either side of Cas’s face, leans down, and presses his quivering lips to Cas’s cold, bloody ones.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

The first thing Castiel sees when he wakens is a pair of kind, silver eyes.

When he realizes just whose eyes they are, he sits up in shock. Blinking several times at the being before him, he says incredulously, “Father?”

God nods, a warm, loving smile wrinkling the corners of His eyes. He is dressed in the same robes He had worn on the day Castiel was brought into existence, and it is a sight Castiel had longed for millennia to see again. “Hello, Castiel,” he replies, and the Seraph feels like he could weep with joy. He never thought he’d hear that voice again, let alone be in the presence of the One who owns it. There is so much he wants to say, so much he yearns to know. He opens his mouth, but he can’t seem to get himself to speak.

To Castiel’s confusion, God merely laughs at this. “I understand that there are many questions you would like answered, _ar gassagen,_ ” He says, “but I’m afraid we have more pressing matters to deal with at this moment.”

All at once, Castiel remembers. “Oh. Yes. I’m dead, aren’t I?” he asks. _I’ve left Dean alone…_

God nods solemnly. “You died as a human, far before your time,” He says. “And you returned here, to Heaven, as the angel you once were.”

As soon as He says this, Castiel can feel the old familiar tingle of Grace at his fingertips, the twitch and flex of his six powerful wings against his back. He almost smiles, until he recalls—

“Unfortunately, you left behind someone who cares for you more than anyone else in the seven Realms.” With a wave of His hand, God reveals an image in the air like a television screen. Castiel peers at it and sees Dean, kneeling in a pool of blood and carnage, sobbing loudly beside his mortal body.

The sight cuts through Castiel like the blade that had killed him. “He loves me,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on Dean’s misery-ridden face.

“More than he can bear,” God agrees. There’s a sadness in His expression, too, as He watches the scene on Earth unfold. Castiel knows He hates to see any of His children suffer. “After all, it was hispurpose to meet you, just as it was yours to meet him.”

“Really?” Castiel asks, astonished. “He was created simply to know me?”

“That is not his only purpose, just as knowing him is not yours.” God sweeps His hand across the image of Dean, and it disappears. “But it is one of the many facets of his full purpose.”

Castiel shifts his gaze to his Father’s eyes. “What is my full purpose, Father?” He’s asked this question countless times before, but now, this time, he might actually get an answer.

God smiles down at him fondly, pleased at His creation. “I created you differently than any other angel I have ever created, simply because you had to be different to fulfill your purpose,” He explains. Castiel listens intently. “I meant for you to become fascinated by Earth, by humans, by the concept of free will and love and other emotions that the rest of the Celestials only feel mere shadows of. You were always more human than angel, and you were meant to be.”

“Why?” Castiel is desperate to know this; it’s the one thing he’s always wondered about himself, the one thing that’s gotten him teased and ridiculed and punished throughout his entire life.

“To show the others that being human is not something to be looked down upon, but rather something to be revered.” Another broad sweep of His hand, and suddenly God brings forth thousands upon thousands of tiny moving images, surrounding Him and Castiel completely. Some of them show humans performing tasks, like grocery shopping, parking their cars, reading, riding bicycles, caring for children. Others are simply snapshots of facial expressions—smiling, frowning, eye-rolling. Most of them, however, are instances where one human is interacting with another: hugging, talking, laughing, playing, teasing, crying, kissing, helping, even making love. Castiel is in awe of every one.

“Your siblings have a very negative view of these creatures,” God explains as Castiel observes the images before them. “They think themselves superior to mankind, more evolved, when in my eyes, they are equal. I created them that way. In some cases—when emotions such as love and trust and joy are involved—I would even say that it is _humans_ who are the superior species.”

Castiel nods in understanding as God clears away the images, but there is still one thing confusing him. “How do I help to show that?” he asks.

“That is the right question to ask, my child,” God replies with a grin. “You see, I have decided that I am going to return to Heaven, and take up my rightful place on the Throne once again—now that it has been vacated by that traitorous Archangel, Raphael.”

“You are returning?” Castiel is overjoyed. “That is fantastic! The others will be so excited to see you; the War will end; lives will be saved!”

“ _And,_ ” God interjects, “your story will be told.”

Castiel stops short. “My…story?”

“The story of an angel who was actually a human with a halo and wings,” God explains. “The story of an angel who loved a human so much from the moment he laid eyes on him that he chose to Fall, risking every aspect of his being, simply to walk beside that human for a time, with no guarantee of reward. Castiel…” God rests His hands on the shoulders of His youngest Seraph, a proud gleam in His silver eyes that fills Castiel to the brim with humility. “Yours is the story of an angel who adored humanity so much that he decided to become part of it, and even gave your life to preserve it. You proved to the entire universe that humanity is something that is worth dying for, and once I tell the others how you proved it, they will no doubt agree.” Then, He pauses, removing His hands for a moment. “At least, that is my current plan. Unless you see fit to carry it out differently, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will give you a choice, Castiel—similar to the one Raphael gave you, only this time, you will have my blessing and protection behind you no matter what you choose. Do you want to remain a Seraph in Heaven, with your family, or a man on Earth, with the human you have grown to love?”

Castiel takes a moment to consider this, much like he’d done when he’d been presented Raphael’s ultimatums. He thinks of Ezekiel and Anael, of Gabriel and Balthazar, and of all the angels he has fought beside and matured with throughout his three thousand years. They may not have understood him completely, but they had been good friends when it really mattered.

But then his thoughts are consumed with memories of sitting beside a campfire with Sam, Bobby, and Dean, getting introduced to s’mores, watching _Firefly,_ buying new clothes, grocery shopping. Those three men had accepted him when he was homeless and injured, and had taken him into their lives without hardly any questions, accepting him just as he was without limitations. And Dean…Dean loves him. Even with all his flaws and eccentricities, Dean has fallen in love with him. Castiel smiles almost tearfully.

In the end, it is an easy decision. “My family _is_ on Earth,” he says, and he knows it’s the truth. From the look on his Father’s face, he can tell that He agrees, as well. “I choose Dean.” _I will always choose Dean._

God smiles fondly down at him. “That is what I anticipated. Very well, then.” He opens His arms wide, inviting Castiel into an embrace. The Seraph melts into it, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace and love and gratitude.

“Thank you, Father,” he murmurs into the soft fabric of God’s robes. “For everything. Thank you so much.”

“No, Castiel,” God replies, pulling back. He laughs. “Thank _you._ I love you, my son. I shall see you again one day.”

As if on cue, a warm white light begins to spread around Castiel. He closes his eyes and falls into it, not even feeling the moment when his Grace is ripped from him once again.

_I’m coming, Dean._

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

 

Dean pulls back from his tearful kiss against Cas’s dead lips when Cas’s body begins to glow. The ground beneath them shakes violently and he covers his swollen eyes with his arm as the light surrounding both Cas’s and Raphael’s bodies gets brighter and brighter, illuminating absolutely everything in the room. A high-pitched whine like the one they’d heard when Raphael’s crazy wings had manifested fills the air and cuts through Dean’s head like nails on a chalkboard. He grits his teeth and tries not to fall over as the apparent earthquake gets more intense…

…and then, it stops.

Dean opens his eyes, only to find himself staring into a pair of deep, all-knowing blue ones.

He huffs out a stunned breath, half-expecting to wake up from this dream at any moment. Cas looks fine—his clothes aren’t torn, the bruises and blood all over him are gone; in fact, every piece of shattered glass has disappeared from the room too, along with the burned furniture and the body of the Archangel. Everything’s back to normal, like nothing ever happened. And _Cas_ —

“Hello, Dean.”

There had been a point in Dean’s life when he’d been able to keep himself from lunging at Cas without a word and kissing the living daylights out of him, but that self-control has apparently worn off, because right now he’s lunging forward and fuckin’ kissing the fuckin’ living _daylights_ out of Cas.

The ex-angel’s inexperience is apparent in the clumsy way he moves his mouth with Dean’s, but eventually he gets a sort of rhythm going and their lips slot together perfectly, their tongues caressing each other like they’ve been doing it for years. Cas tastes like ozone and stale toothpaste and fresh rainwater; Dean’s hopelessly addicted already. His arms come up to wind themselves around Cas’s neck and he feels Cas holding him around the waist. It’s perfect. It’s all so perfect.

After several long minutes of trying to melt inside Cas’s body through his mouth, Dean pulls back with a stunned gasp and rests his forehead against the other man’s, panting and opening his eyes to take in the sight before him: Cas’s raven hair is even more unruly than usual, his face is gorgeously flushed, and his parted lips are pink and spit-slick and just _begging_ to be debauched. All that paired with the new ethereal blue eyes means he’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen, but when he opens his mouth to say this, all that comes out is, “Did you just leave Heaven or somethin’?”

Cas blinks slowly and moves one of his hands from where it’s fisted in the back of Dean’s T-shirt to rest on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. The two of them feel it beat for a few seconds before Cas says meaningfully, “No. I came back to it.”

Dean’s eyes fill with tears and flutter closed. He laughs once, breathily, and says, “I love you,” before latching onto his soulmate’s mouth once again.

Over the sound of the approaching sirens— _Gonna have to tell Bobby those aren’t necessary_ —Dean hears the sentiment returned from the lips pressed to his own.

 

**~•~•~•~•~**

_Take this sinking boat_

_And point it home_

_We’ve still got time_

_Raise your hopeful voice_

_You have a choice_

_You’ve made it now_

_Falling slowly_

_Sing your melody_

_I’ll sing along…_

**~•~•~•~•~**


End file.
